Leave Normal Alone
by Mango Marbles
Summary: Pre-series. References to 7x03, The Girl Next Door. Dean finds a case of mass kidnappings, all children. John insists that it isn't supernatural and asks him to leave it alone, but 19-year-old Dean can't resist playing hero. If only he knew that meant drawing too much attention to himself and to Sam. Some cases are better left to the police. Dark themes and content. Sequel started.
1. Another New Town

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Author's Note Part One** **:** A new story? Yes! This plot was given to me by the lovely M.J. Ellsworth (I'm posting only the most important part of the prompt as an extended summary and to avoid buffering my word count too much):

"John always taught the boys to leave ordinary crime to the police, but when you're a cocky 19-year-old, the temptation to play hero is always there. When children start to go missing, Dean can't help but snoop around, despite his father's assertion that the kidnappers are human. Little does Dean know, the more he digs, the more attention he attracts to his family... and to his little brother."

She's given me the sandbox, and now I'm going to enjoy playing in it and hopefully do justice to a great prompt.

* * *

Amy.

He didn't know her last name, and probably never would. In a way, that lack of knowledge made him feel like he was disrespecting her. She killed her own mother to protect him, but he barely knew anything about her aside from her name and their shared dislike of being forced into a lifestyle they didn't want. He still saw the scene play out so clearly in his mind that he wondered if he'd ever be able to forget it.

And his family would know even less because he couldn't tell them about her. Not if he wanted to spare her from being hunted by people who only saw black and white when it came to the supernatural. Since she was not human, her sacrifice would mean nothing to his family.

The cover story formed itself in the minds of John and Dean. They were hunting a kitsune. It found out they were hunting it. It fled without leaving a trace behind for them to follow. Now they just needed to keep an eye on the news of the nearby areas to see whether or not it's smart enough to lay low, or if they get to continue that particular hunt.

Sam hadn't had to open his mouth at all. As far as they knew, he never came anywhere close to a kitsune. He did research, and then hung out with some girl (after asking Dean for some tips, a fact which he had a feeling he would not be allowed to forget).

While John and Dean left the town simply with the empty feeling of an unfinished hunt, Sam left the town weighed with the guilt that he was the reason that one of the few people who truly understood him no longer had a mother, regardless of how good or bad the relationship between Amy and her mother had been. She was completely on her own in a world that wanted her dead. It gave Sam the kind of guilt that was deep and suffocating. Tangible, almost.

"I can practically _hear_ your angst, Sammy," Dean said.

Sam pulled his eyes away from the drab landscape passing by the window to glare, half-heartedly, at Dean. "It's 'Sam'," he corrected.

"Whatever," Dean said. "Look, I get that you had some girl you were interested in—and I guess she might have been interested in you, too—but you knew going into that town that we weren't gonna be stayin' long."

The only comfort from getting this lecture from Dean while in the car was that their dad wasn't there to hear it. He wasn't there to delve into another rant about vengeance and how normal wasn't an option while the thing that killed Mary was out in the world somewhere. Ever since he was gifted the Impala, Dean sat behind the wheel with Sam in the passenger seat and followed their dad's truck from hunt to hunt.

"I know, Dean."

Let Dean chalk it up to classic teen angst. It was easier than explaining that he made friends with one of the kitsune (it didn't feel right calling her a monster) they were supposed to kill. It was easier than having them know that he was Sam Winchester: kid only really understood by non-humans.

"It's easier to learn to not make any real connections. Hurts less when you have to break them," Dean said, every word the definition of sincere.

"I know, Dean."

Sam doubted that Dean ever managed to make real connections at any of their stops over the years. He'd certainly never witnessed something like that. Dean was all attitude and charm, able to face whatever the world threw at him by himself, if need be. As long as he had his family, he didn't need a connection with anyone else. And since he was always with his family, how could he know what it felt like to break connections?

He never had to watch someone kill their only family member to save him.

If Sam showed little interest in talking things out with his brother, Dean would stop trying to get him to talk. So when Dean reached over and turned up the volume of the radio, Sam knew their almost conversation was over. It was a relief, but that wasn't the way Dean would see it.

And Sam knew Dean wished he could stay in one place for awhile and have something normal. Something to hold onto. But that just wasn't their life. Other people lived in bliss, ignorant of the creatures who lurked in the dark. They needed hunters to protect them before they knew they needed protection.

It all made sense. It was noble and something to be proud of, but those thoughts were never enough to pull Sam out of the burdens that job brought with it. This particular job was heavier, and it was one of the rare troubles that he couldn't share with Dean. It was one of the times that he wished he could only see black and white like his father and brother, but simultaneously glad that he couldn't because it would have resulted in the murder of an innocent girl.

How was he supposed to juggle this for the rest of his life? Weren't most supernatural creatures merely victims of circumstance in the end, the way so many hunters were?

"Where are we headed?" he asked. John hadn't shared any new hunt details with him, mostly silent since he found out the kitsune escaped him. Sam wasn't really sure why he asked in the first place. It didn't matter where they go, and he'd already been to most of the states after fifteen years of constant moving anyway.

"Massachusetts," Dean said. He kept his tone light, but Sam could see that he still wanting to ask questions that he couldn't answer. "Caleb called in for some back-up with a few witches, and we were the lucky ones within a day's drive of him. He thought there was just one, but he got himself caught up in a whole coven of them. Strong, too."

"Great. I love witches," Sam said with a roll of his eyes.

Dean chuckled. "You don't gotta do anything, Sammy. Caleb has all the knowledge, he just wants some help for when he goes in for the kill. Just in case they have some tricks up their sleeves, which they mostly likely do."

"Oh."

They didn't speak much more after that. As much as he disliked hunting, being excluded from a hunt after participating in most of them in some way for a few years now left him unsettled.

Sure, he trusted Caleb to do the research properly and follow through with the hunt, but it nagged at him and left an inexplainable pit in his stomach. Alarm bells warning him of danger.

Maybe he could fool himself into believing it's just his imagination this time.

* * *

They settled in a motel after nightfall, cheap as indicated by the way it reeked of cigarettes and piss. The yellow paint was half-peeled off of the walls, and it may have been white at one point in time. The pathetic kitchenette was more mold than tiled floors and appliances that maybe worked every third try. One look at the matted, stained shag carpet (who still had shag carpet?) covering the rest of the room was enough to dissuade him from removing his shoes. Ever.

He glanced at Dean and found that he stared at the carpet like something was about to crawl out of it at any moment.

He didn't look forward to seeing the state of the bathroom.

Sam knew that his dad wasn't planning on sticking around when he got one room instead of two (the normal since Sam and Dean grew too old to share one of the two beds).

Despite having driven all day, his dad headed out almost immediately after getting the room with a few last minute reminders (Sam referred to them as 'orders') and a comment that he should have reception on his phone this time since the hunt with Caleb was nearby.

Of course he would have reception. Most modern witches lived in cities, among people (whom they may or may not practice a little black magic on from time to time), but Sam didn't bother to point it out.

He also didn't point out the humor that Caleb _would_ find a witch hunt so close to Salem, but he wasn't feeling very humorous lately.

And then it was just Sam and Dean, as was the case so often through their lives.

Sam didn't delude himself into thinking Dean would be in the motel room for more than another hour. After earning his GED, he started frequenting bars when their dad didn't need his help. He was only nineteen, but a young female bartender and a little patented Dean Winchester charm meant that drinks would be served all night and Dean wouldn't be back until morning. Sometimes he brought back money from hustling. Most times he only brought back the stench of alcohol and cheap perfume along with too-bright lipstick stains.

"Are you watching the rest of the paint peel off or something?" Dean asked.

He waved his hand in front of Sam's face, only for it to be swatted away. Sam hadn't even noticed that he'd been just staring at the wall, but what else did he really have to do? The hunt was researched already and his assistance in carrying it out was unneeded. His dad figured they wouldn't stay long enough to warrant enrolling him in a local school. The TV played more static than it did shows.

And then Dean was hovering over him, a little concern hidden behind his cocky, self-assured demeanor. "Dude, you okay, Sammy?"

Sam rolled his eyes. He hadn't meant to get swept away in his thoughts twice in such quick succession. "It's 'Sam'," he corrected, "and I'm fine."

Dean held his hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, then. If you're fine, I'm heading to the bar," he said.

Sam shrugged. "Do whatever you want, Dean."

Dean headed to the door, but stopped and looked at Sam before leaving, words clearly on the tip of his tongue. But whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed back because he left the motel room without another sound.

Sam sank onto the bed. Usually he relished in the short periods of solitude allowed him, but this time he found himself glancing at the door far too often. He felt trapped in a game of waiting, but he had no idea what he was waiting for. How long until his dad or brother strolled in with news of their kitsune reappearing? Would Amy be able to lay low well enough to avoid detection? Would she go far enough away?

Would death end up being her thanks for killing her own mother to save Sam?

* * *

Dean scoped out every local bar he found, but he must have picked the wrong night because where were the female bartenders? Did they exist here? How else would he get a drink in this town? Why did he keep procrastinating on upgrading to a new fake ID that listed him as twenty-one?

How else would he find something distracting enough to take his mind off of the other questions running through his mind about more important topics? Like, what was up with Sam lately? He barely complained about leaving the last town. In fact, he seemed anxious to get out of the place. But if it wasn't moving again that bothered him, what was it?

Life in general?

Maybe it was nothing, just a bad grade on an assignment or he lost his favorite pair of socks somewhere between all of the moving around.

Dean couldn't even fool himself with that one, it just wasn't Sam.

And Dean found himself wondering if maybe it _was_ Sam now. He was getting older and Dean went off on his own more often now that Sam could mostly take care of himself (though Dean would never relinquish the entire job description for caretaker). They still spent a lot of time in each other's company, but not really keeping each other company. Dean wanted the hunt. He loved the feel of adrenaline pouring through his veins and the knowledge that his actions saved people.

Sam wanted… Sam wanted anything _except_ the hunt. It wasn't that he didn't see the value in what they did, Dean knew he understood the importance. He just wanted to choose his own path, not have one forced upon him like hunting had been. And he still pulled through when they needed him. His enthusiasm for hunting faded shortly after he was allowed to join them regularly on hunts, but he researched, trained, and killed when it was asked of him. The problem was the lifestyle associated with it (Dean was about ninety-nine percent sure that was the problem), but Dean still hated Sullen Sam Mode.

He parked the Impala back at the motel and sat, debating whether or not he wanted to go back in yet. Every time he thought he figured out Sam, he changed again. Usually he at least pried an 'I'm just sick of moving so much' out of the kid, but this time Sam barely spoke to him. Not to mention the random spacing out he started doing lately (that freaked him out the most and oh God, what if he was having absence seizures?). John gave him the fix-him look before leaving, and Dean planned to do just that anyway.

If only Sam could make that easy for him for once.

Despite the light filling their motel room signaling life, Sam was dead to the world. Dean rolled his eyes. Gone for maybe an hour and a half, and Sam went to bed.

A sweep of the room and Dean didn't blame him. The TV garbled out static gibberish and Sam had no homework or research to do. He couldn't legally drive yet, at the young age of fifteen. Town was big and kind of close, but not close enough for him to want to take the time walking to and from in the middle of the night (and Sam hadn't been the type to seek out company lately anyway) and getting a motel room in the town was probably more expensive—albeit nicer—than the one they ended up in.

All the kid really had left to do was sleep, and that made a knot of guilt form in Dean's gut. He could have at least offered to take Sam with him into town, let him wander a bit and get some fresh air (something Dean felt the need for after spending less than ten minutes in the room, let alone the nearly two hours Sam had been in there). But at the same time, Dean needed a moment to clear his own head before he started figuring out how he was going to get through to Sam this time. It didn't help to start thinking that with nothing else to do, Sam probably mulled over whatever depressing thoughts were floating in his head in the time before he fell asleep.

Dean got himself ready for bed and turned out the light, wondering what it was that bothered Sam so much, but that he couldn't share with him.

* * *

In the morning, Dean left to get some breakfast and returned to find the TV working, its picture more-or-less clear, and the news turned on.

"How'd ya fix it?" Dean asked, kicking the door shut with his heel.

Sam glanced over at him and shrugged. He gestured at the antenna atop the boxy TV. "Messed with those."

"Huh," Dean said. Given the awkward, bent shape of the antenna, he didn't think any amount of fiddling would bring decent reception.

He distributed breakfast from a grease-stained brown paper bag and sat on his bed, more interested in food than the weather report. But then the weather report was over and pictures of children appeared on the screen, their name and age listed below. Most of them were around ten to thirteen years of age, a couple older and a couple younger.

The anchor asked for any information on the children shown to be reported to the police, who could be contacted through the phone number at the bottom of the screen.

"Huh," Dean said again, now more interested in the news than food (though that didn't stop him from dutifully eating bite after bite).

He pulled out his phone and dialed his dad's number. Past experiences led him to expect no answer, in which case he would leave a voicemail. But after the third ring, John did answer.

"What is it, Dean?"

He sounded tired and Dean wondered if him and Caleb spent the night working out the details of whatever plan they concocted.

"There are a lot of missing children from this area," Dean said. "I was wondering if it might be our kind of thing."

John's voice was muffled and distant for a second, then he said, "No. No, it's not, Dean. And Caleb says 'hi'."

"How do you know it's not our thing, Dad? Those kids could be in trouble and we might be able to help them!"

"Dean, I was looking into it before Caleb even called with his witch hunt. I thought it might be something, too, but there's not a speck of supernatural in the story of their disappearances. Just humans. Piece of shit humans, but humans. Leave it alone. Let the police handle it, Dean."

"But Dad we could still help them. They're just _kids_ ," Dean said. He glanced at Sam as he said it, still just a kid.

"Dean, I'm too tired to argue with you right now," he said, warning clear in his tone. "Just leave it. I know you want to help and you can hunt, but the things you hunt follow patterns. Humans are sometimes more dangerous. You never know what to expect from them."

John hung up, but at least he wouldn't hear Dean's silent refusal to say 'yes, sir' when he couldn't accept the order his father tried to give. He couldn't understand his father's adamance about leaving this case alone, and how could there be nothing strange about _that_ many kids going missing from the area?

They're just _kids._

Why would humans need to kidnap that many of them?

Something wasn't adding up and he suspected that his dad knew more than he let on, but Dean knew that he got as much information from his dad as he likely would on the topic. 'Leave it alone'.

Dean snorted a laugh and tossed his phone onto the bed behind him and looked at Sam. Like John could actually expect him to leave a mass kidnapping case alone. "Up for a little hunt of our own?" he asked.

"The missing kids?" Sam asked. "Why? I could hear Dad from over here. He doesn't think it's our thing."

"Kids, Sam. Kids are in danger. Half of our motto is 'saving people'."

Sam looked back at the TV, and Dean wondered if he'd be alone on this hunt. Working together could help him get through to Sam. Show him that he could trust Dean with whatever was eating at him.

"We could look into it," he said, reluctance clear in his tone, "but we'd have to report what we find to the police."

"What? Why?"

Sam gave him a pointed are-you-serious look. "Dean, we can't handle it the way we usually do. There'd be too many witnesses with all the kidnapped kids and how would you explain them all suddenly being freed and their kidnappers just vanishing? You know we can't go and get ourselves on the news, which is exactly what they'd want if some vigilante showed up out of nowhere and finds a group of kids who've been missing for however long," he said. "We don't know if they're even still…"

 _Alive?_

"Depends on what we find," Dean said. He was unnerved by how similar Sam's logic in his argument was to what their dad would say. Neither of them noticed that they probably argued so much because they were too alike, but Dean saw it.

* * *

Having something to do helped dull his guilt, but Sam still wasn't sure about looking for missing children who were kidnapped by humans. Sure, he wanted the kids to be found and safe, but one of their dad's rules was that they don't kill humans. If Dean found the kidnappers, Sam knew that they would either leave on the verge of death, or not leave at all.

He took his role as protector seriously, like the burden of responsibility for every innocent soul rested upon his shoulders.

Sam really didn't want to argue otherwise right now, didn't want to bring up that he wasn't so sure he could tell the difference between monster and innocent anymore. So he decided to humor Dean. Let him play hero and try to find the missing kids.

The librarian seemed a little skeptical when they asked for newspaper articles about any missing persons under the age of eighteen throughout the town's history, but Sam's research-paper-for-school excuse worked nine out of ten times at libraries.

Dean sat across from him, sifting through articles with focus that Sam rarely saw from his brother during the research stages of a hunt.

Within a couple of hours, they both had neat little stacks of clippings set aside, despite Dean's complaints that the library could do a better job sorting their newspapers.

"There was a string of children disappearances about seventy-five years ago, but all of them were found dead a matter of days after they went missing," Dean said, spreading out the stack he separated from the majority.

Sam looked at the stack he spread on the table in front of him. "So about six months ago, kids started going missing at an alarming rate," Sam said. "Two or three each month, sometimes more. At first, they weren't given more than the usual amount of attention, but it kept happening. A few months in and the stories start bringing in the possibility of devil worship and sacrifices."

"And?"

Sam met Dean's eyes and gave a small shake of his head. "The children still haven't been found. They're just gone."

Dean's clippings rejoined the pile of dismissed newspapers, but he pocketed the ones Sam picked out. It wasn't much to go on, but there were names and that was more than they had when they walked into the library.

"Do you really think the families are going to be willing to talk to _you_ about their missing kids?" Sam asked. "You can't pass for a fed or reporter like Dad. What are you going to tell them?"

"I can pass for a fed."

"Wasn't you trying to pass as a fed exactly what ruined that werewolf case a few months ago? Almost got yourself arrested."

"Dude, that had nothing to do with my appearance. I look old enough to be a fed."

" _Dean_."

"If you have a better idea, Sammy, I'm all ears."

Sam shrugged. "It's 'Sam'. Let's just work with the clippings for now. They have all the 'last seen here' information. Maybe we can find some pattern or connections."

"You know," Dean said, "if it is devil worship, that kind of makes it our kind of thing. Even if the people doing it are human."

Sam felt the beginning of a headache nearing. When their dad dismissed a case as nothing, that meant a lot. He was a man who chased after cases because a single sentence screamed to him something wasn't right. Why couldn't Dean leave it alone and let the police do their job?

 _Never thought I'd_ want _to let the police do their job._

"I don't know, Dean. Doesn't something just feel wrong about this?"

"About what? Helping people?" Dean asked. Dean sighed and ran his hand down his face. Sam saw the anger he fought to keep in check and the exhausted confusion he tried to hide every time he looked at Sam. "Look, I don't know what's been bothering you since we left the last town, and you clearly aren't about to talk to me about it, but we have a chance to save some people here. That's what we do, Sam. We're _heroes_."

Sam knew that he hadn't been making Dean's life very easy lately. The constantly growing tension between John and him made Dean nervous, and they all waited for the moment when the tension would give way to arguments and fighting. His 'attitude' (John's words, not his) about the life and having to move so much was always left to Dean to sort out. He knew the look their dad gave Dean before he left always meant 'take care of it', but Dean would've placed the responsibility of handling Sam's unhappiness on his own shoulder without any orders because no matter how old Sam was, he still labeled himself as his primary caregiver. He made it his job to handle anything Sam threw at him to keep Sam happy and healthy (or as happy as he could get these days and as healthy as their lifestyle allowed).

Sam appreciated it. He really did. He knew how much of Dean's life having to take care of him took away, and had he ever given Dean anything in return for it?

So he rubbed at his forehead in a poor attempt to drive the growing pain away and shook his head. "Fine," Sam said. "We'll look into it."

Dean flash him a bright grin, and Sam almost felt like he'd given Dean some gift he had always been waiting for, even if a promise to help look into a case of missing children didn't seem like a good gift at all.

Dean re-boxed the assortment of newspapers scattered across the library table and announced he was starving. He scooped up the box to drop off with the librarian before they left for lunch. Sam followed. While he hadn't been all that hungry lately, he would just make his own life harder if Dean didn't see him at least trying to eat (he firmly believed that Dean would hold him down and force feed him if he felt it was necessary).

Neither of them felt the set of eyes focused their backs from a man at a nearby library table, pretending to be busy, as he watched them leave.

* * *

 **Author's Note Part Two:** I hope that you've enjoyed the start. Leave a review and let me know how I'm doing. Follow to stick around for what happens next. Favorite to keep it marked on your account forever and ever. And thank you for even just giving the first chapter a try and reading it!


	2. Another Night Alone

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Minor violence? Slight language, maybe. Use of Alcohol.

* * *

The next morning they were up early and laid a map of the city out on the kitchenette's table. Treating it like a normal hunt, Sam carefully marked locations with a tiny red 'X' while Dean read off the 'last seen at…' from each missing child's article. At the final one, Sam set the marker aside and looked for a pattern. Anything that could give them a hint to help the missing children in a hope that it wouldn't be too late.

"So, Sammy," Dean said, "connect the dots. What're we looking at?"

"It's 'Sam'."

"Sure," Dean said. "Seriously though, finding anything?"

Sam pointed at a couple locations where the little marks were grouped. "These look like hot spots, but they're what you would expect for kidnappings. Places where kids typically hang out. School, probably grabbed on their way home. The local arcade. The mall. The park. None of them were grabbed from their beds in the middle of the night, so I'm guessing they aren't targeting specific children. Just taking what they can get, you know?"

"Maybe," Dean said. "But that might not be entirely true. I mean, taking a kid from their home is pretty risky. These guys might not have the stealth for that."

"And taking a kid in public places is pretty risky, too. You would think that someone would've noticed kids being taken if it's from a public place, especially if the kid is panicking." Sam looked at the X's staring back at him, like they were trying to get him to see something obvious right in front of him. He sighed. "I don't know, man."

"Might be worth taking a look at the places you have all marked up. If they scope out kids, they could be at any of the spots at any time," Dean suggested. He grabbed the keys to the Impala. "Looks like we have a long day ahead of us."

Sam folded the map and followed Dean out of the motel room, glad to get some fresh air before he contracted freaking asbestosis. Their dad got so caught up in the dangers that the supernatural world posed that he sometimes forgot the normal hazards.

The car was mostly quiet, but like Dean, there was something about this hunt that he couldn't quite shake from his thoughts.

"Hey, Dean?"

"What?"

"The kids have never been found, like not even a body. What do you think happened to them?" Sam asked.

Dean shot a sideways glance at him. "Why do you want to know?"

Sam shrugged. "Just curious, you know? How can someone disappear so completely without it being supernatural?"

"People are crazy, Sammy," Dean said. "If they want something bad enough, they'll find a way to get it."

Sam let that end their conversation since it was clear that Dean wasn't about to stop deflecting his question. Maybe he didn't want the images of his beliefs in Sam's head. Maybe he didn't want to think of the possibilities himself. It's so much easier to write people off as crazy than it is to look at what they've done for that title and why.

"Sam?"

"What?"

"Stay close to me while we're snooping around these places," Dean said. "Just in case."

Sam used a lot of his willpower to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "Sure, Dean," he said. While he heard how insincere it sounded, they both knew he wouldn't be running off on his own. Not unless he wanted to be stranded.

But he saw Dean's white knuckle grip on the steering wheel and realized that while Dean knew he wouldn't run off _on his own_ , that didn't mean that outside forces wouldn't interfere and remove him against his will.

"I'm kind of out of their age range," Sam added. As if pointing out minor details ever made Dean worry less. The one time that Sam implied that he was worse than a mother bear, Dean looked almost proud like it was a compliment.

" _I_ know that," Dean said. "But it doesn't matter what your age _is_ , just what age you look. And let's face it, Sammy, you don't look fifteen."

Sam was well aware of that. He'd grown somewhat in the past year, but Dean still towered over him.

That growth spurt Dean promised him was coming could get here any time now. He was sick of hearing that it was normal to still be a runt at his age. That some people don't reach their full height until their early twenties.

Bullshit.

"Do you actually think they're going to come after me?" Sam asked. He meant to sound sarcastic, but when the question left his mouth, genuine curiosity accompanied it.

Dean took a little longer to answer than Sam was comfortable with. "I don't know," he admitted. "But if they make that mistake, I'll be teaching them a lesson that they'll remember until they die. You don't got anything to worry about."

Sam didn't point out that Dean was the one worrying. Whoever was kidnapping children was taking them when they were in public places, and likely alone there. He figured they wouldn't go through the effort of tracking him down, and if he was in public, Dean was usually in the area as well.

Dean parked on the street by the park. Sam watched the kids play with unbridled joy and no worries, a feeling he never experienced. Parents watched from the sidelines and enjoyed their own conversations amidst the shouts and laughter. Moments like this made him feel even more like an outsider than normal, standing away from it all and knowing that he couldn't join in. Could never join in.

He didn't realize he spaced out again until Dean waved his hand in front of his face. He blinked himself back into the present and met Dean's worried stare.

"You back with me, Sammy?"

"It's 'Sam'."

"So, that's a 'yes'," Dean said. "You having mini seizures or something? This new checking-out thing of yours, it's like there's no one home."

Dean's laugh at the end was probably meant to be a way to lighten his words, but its shakiness told Sam that this was a legitimate concern of Dean's. 'Sam is starting to space out, his brain must be breaking.'

And Sam wasn't the least bit surprised that Dean came to that conclusion because it was Dean and if the source of pain—any variation—wasn't something he could see, it meant a broken brain.

"I'm not having seizures, Dean. It' called 'getting lost in thought'," Sam said. Then, with a smirk, he added, "But I guess you'd have to _have_ a thought first before you could get lost in it."

Dean hit him upside the head and walked away, only this time Sam followed him. And Dean made sure of that by glancing over his shoulder every few seconds like he was about to disappear from right under his nose.

But this wasn't a supernatural threat they were after this time. It wasn't something that really could snatch Sam away without warning. Humans bled, and Sam grew up learning how to hurt things that bleed (and some things that didn't bleed, but did burn). They'd have to drag him kicking and screaming, and people kidnapping so many children who are never seen again wouldn't want their cover blown by one kid drawing too much attention to them.

Dean might've been worried, but Sam figured that logically the odds of him being chosen _and_ taken were fairly low.

As they moved farther into the park, his skin crawled in the same way it did when a spirit was a little too close for comfort, but when he looked around, nothing in the park seemed out of the ordinary. He tried to shake that feeling that he was being watched—and no matter how many times he checked his surroundings, he never found a reason to feel that way—but hunting taught him to trust his gut instincts.

He decided that he would tell Dean _only_ if the feeling persisted once they left the park. There was no use in adding to his worry, and he'd really like to avoid being handcuffed to Dean, _by_ Dean, 'for his own safety'.

* * *

After a sweep of the park, and absolutely nothing to show for it, they left. While they couldn't find any hint as to what happened to the kids, the park was big and who knew how many people went through it on any given day and unknowingly walked through things that could have been useful evidence. So, Dean drove them to the arcade next. Sam was still next to him, which was a win. But the missing children were still, well, missing. So that part was a loss.

Dean parked the car. Sam on the way over once again suggested that maybe they should leave this to the police. What were they going to find that the police missed?

Dean gave him the choice to help with the hunt, or be dropped off back at the motel to wait while Dean worked the hunt. Sam reluctantly said he'd help, but Dean wondered how much not wanting to be at the filthy motel room outweighed genuinely wanting to help children.

But hey, beggars and choosers.

The arcade was the kind of place Dean would have gladly frequented as a child. A place filled with bright, colorful lights, the pew-pew of virtual lasers, laughter, and greasy food that should never sensibly be served to children. Perfection.

But as a hunter, it was a nightmare. Loud, a haze of lung-killing smoke, crowded, and cramped.

They swept the place in the same way they did the park. Look for anything out of the ordinary, but so many people passed through the arcade that it posed the same problem as the park. Anything useful had to be found almost immediately after the kidnapping, or it'd get lost in a flood of people passing through.

More than one child disappeared from the arcade, so there had to be someone who lurked around and watched for their opportunity.

 _If you were a psychopathic child-snatcher, where would you scope out your prey?_

God if it didn't make him sick to just think that.

He led Sam over to the dining area of the arcade (right next to the bumper cars that he might try out before they left) and sat at one of the tables.

"Would you say that we have a pretty good view of the place from here?" Dean asked.

Sam took a minute to look around from his chair before he shrugged. "I don't know. I guess it's okay, but there are a lot of machines in the way."

"Maybe," Dean admitted, but then he looked and saw what might be the information he needed. "But we have a perfect view of the exit, don't we?"

Sam looked over and nodded. "Yeah. You don't think?"

"That's exactly what I think. Find a kid and follow 'em out of the building. Less witnesses and still plenty of clueless people passing through to muck up any evidence left behind."

Dean felt electricity jolt through the back of his neck, and he searched the area. Someone was watching him. He could feel it and knew it as certainly as he knew that a silver bullet to the heart killed a werewolf.

Sam didn't seem to notice anything, which led Dean to believe that maybe it's nothing. Simply the result of being around a lot of people, a breakthrough (even small), and the general paranoia that was always present when there was the slightest chance that something posed a threat to his family.

He herded Sam back to the Impala and headed to take a break for some dinner, there wasn't much else they could learn from the arcade beyond a possible place where the kidnappers sat while looking for their next victim. It'd been too long since a child was taken. If they wanted something useful, they'd have to be on the scene within a day. Before it's lost to the oblivious crowds.

"Did it feel like you were being watched at the arcade?" Dean asked.

Sam stared out of the window, and Dean thought he'd have to repeat his question by the time Sam finally said, "No. Not at the arcade. Did you?"

"I thought I did, but it could've been nothing," Dean said. "It was probably nothing."

Dean looked over at Sam, who had the expression that he was thinking about whether or not he wanted to speak up about something. A look Dean hated when it was followed by silence, as it increasingly was these days.

"Spill it, Sam," Dean said. "I can hear those gears in your head grinding away."

Sam sighed, but complied. "I felt like that at the park."

"And you didn't tell me because?"

"Like you, I didn't think it was anything. Paranoia, maybe."

Dean tensed and relaxed his grip on the steering wheel like it was a stress relief ball. "New rule, Sam. Or, well, old rule that I never thought I'd have to spell out for you. If something even remotely feels off or weird, you tell me. I don't care how insignificant you think it might be. I want to know," Dean said. "Understood?"

"I was going to tell you if I kept feeling it, but I didn't," Sam said. "And since you felt the same thing at the arcade, I brought it up. I really didn't think it was a big deal, Dean."

"Not a big deal," Dean echoed. His voice raised. "Not a big deal? What, if you get your freaking arm cut off are you going to tell me it's just a scratch?"

"What? No," Sam said. "How are you comparing me not telling you that I thought I was being paranoid with me losing my arm?"

"Because how long does it take for the situations we're used to to escalate from paranoia to missing limbs, Sam?" Dean demanded.

"Well, now you know. It doesn't matter anymore," Sam said. The argumentative heat left his words. Dean knew he hated the tension growing between him and their dad, but arguing with John didn't hurt like it did with Dean. Sam told him that once after an apology for a stupid argument between them that went too far.

"No, we aren't just dropping this," Dean said. Of course they weren't. Dean refused to drop any conversation when he thought it pertained to Sam's well-being. Even if he sounded angry—and he was—it was mostly out of concern. "Like I said before, I get that something happened in the last town, and I don't know what exactly it is, but it's eating at you. You don't wanna tell me? Fine. Mope all you want. Be sad. Angst and watch raindrops slide down windows. That's all _fine_.

"But the second you feel threatened or watched, you tell me and let me do my job. Because that's _not_ fine. I don't want to have to handcuff you to me, but I will if it means keeping you safe."

Sam didn't respond to that, but there wasn't much left to say. They both knew where they stood on the topic and no change was in sight.

* * *

Dean pulled into the motel parking lot after a quick stop for dinner, and Sam prepared himself for another night alone in the motel room. At least he got the TV working so it wouldn't be so silent, but he wished that whatever garbage was showing on cheap cable tonight could numb his brain like it could Dean's.

But he wasn't Dean. And he wasn't John. He sympathized with things that they called monsters because he wasn't sure that's all there was to the world. As much as he wished he could believe that their world was black and white, he witnessed that it wasn't.

So Sam settled on one bed with his back against the headboard, doing his best to ignore the way the air in the motel room felt oddly sticky. Grimy.

Dean said his goodbye with a mumbled apology and promised to only be gone a few hours. Long enough to check out the mall and the school, the last two places on the list. Then Sam was alone again.

* * *

Like at the arcade and the park, Dean couldn't find anything helpful. The only thing he did notice was that at both places he felt a presence watching him. While glad that Sam wasn't there for the sickos to stalk, he didn't feel great about being separated from Sam when something was obviously going on in this town, supernatural or not.

But he made sure that they weren't followed to the motel. He knew that Sam had his choice of hidden weapons around the motel room to protect himself against any sort of threat.

He tried to tell himself that there was nothing to worry about. He was just being paranoid. And he would never admit it, but he was starting to wonder if he should've listened to his dad about leaving the entire situation alone. He had yet to understand how John could turn his back to kids going missing. Wouldn't he do anything he could to find Dean or Sam if they went missing, regardless of whether or not the reason behind it was supernatural?

He drove through the town's darkened streets and wondered what time of day the kids were taken. Why? How did they vanish so completely that it was like they were only figments of others' imaginations?

He needed a drink more tonight than he had a few nights ago, and Sam could wait a little longer. As long as he felt that he was being watched, and Sam apparently hadn't felt that since the park, that was fine. They can watch him all they wanted as long as Sam was out of their sight. So he managed to find a bar with a pretty, young bartender of the female sex and set out to settle his nerves.

* * *

Sam knew the spending-the-night-alone drill. He had known it since he was nine and all he had was Sully to keep him company while Dean left more often to join their dad on hunts. He took the silver knife Dean kept under his pillow and put it under his own pillow. He made sure the door was locked. He followed the instructions that still echoed in his mind from every single time they were given to him when Dean knew he'd be gone for a couple of days at a time.

Sam fell into a fitful sleep, but he couldn't remember the last time his sleep was peaceful. Waking up in the middle of the night became an expected occurrence, so it was no surprise when he found himself tired but unable to return to sleep.

He heard a sort of scratching sound from the door. If Dean had enough to drink that he couldn't get the key in the door the first try, he should definitely not have driven back.

But Sam would have heard the Impala pull in and park in front of the room. He would have heard the door open and close. He would have heard Dean's drunken, off-key singing continuing the song he just cut off as he got out of the car. He would have heard…

The lock being opened, but not picked.

He slipped his hand under his pillow and gripped the knife's hilt. That was enough to bring him some comfort, like Dean was with him even when he wasn't. Like he could channel a bit of Dean's fighting spirit through one of the few material possessions his brother treasured. He allowed himself a deep breath before he controlled his breathing to be nice and slow, pretending to be asleep despite the flood of adrenaline beginning to pump through his veins. The element of surprise was really the only element he had at the moment.

He heard voices from the other side of the door, like they were arguing in hushed tones. Which meant that there was more than one person outside of his motel room and trying to break in.

Why did Dean have to choose that night to stay out until the sun freaking rose?

The door opened slowly, but they couldn't prevent it from creaking. All the oil and WD-40 in the town couldn't accomplish that. It made them stop for a second, listen to see if they woke Sam up with the sound.

Then they were moving closer and closer to him, and more questions ran through his mind with each step they took. Why him? Where was Dean? Didn't Dean say he was sure they weren't followed back? What were his odds when he was outnumbered by (assumingly) full-grown adults? Could he at least take one down before they got him?

He sure as hell was going to try.

He waited for his perfect moment, and found it when one of the intruders leaned over him so close that he could feel breath on the back of his neck. It took every ounce of the discipline instilled in him by his dad to keep pretending he was deep, deep asleep.

It was when he felt the tip of the needle against his skin that he opened his eyes and drove the knife up and into the man hovering over him.

The cry of pain and vague outline of a man shriveled up on the ground in the darkness told Sam that these men weren't used to their victims fighting back.

But they could adapt and a heavy hit from a fist at his head had him dazed. A flashlight being turned on and pointed at him blinded him. He kicked and flailed, tried to get off of the bed and grab the knife still lodged in the man on the ground, but there were too many of them.

When they held him down through his resistance and managed to stick the needle in his neck, pushing the syringe's plunger, the only solace he could find was in two things.

One: they would be hurting for a few days to come due to his struggle. The stabbed man might even bleed out on the motel's floor, but Sam's not sure where he managed to hit with the knife.

Two: Dean would come after him.

So the world around him faded with the feeling of being lifted and grunts as one of them tried to get the stabbed man out of the room as well.

The last thing he heard was a distant voice, frantic and pain-filled, exclaim, "Little bastard stabbed me!"

Sam would've smirked if he could control any part of his body in that moment against the weight of unconsciousness pulling him away.

It _would_ be his luck that the first peaceful bout of his sleep came at the hands of forced drugs and kidnappers.

* * *

Dean was sober enough to know that he shouldn't drive, but drunk enough to do it anyway. His night ended on a high note, and he might've stayed out until sunrise with an eager-to-please woman if the drinks could've shaken his earlier feelings of being watched. If they could've shaken the knowledge that Sam felt the same paranoia (and then neglected to tell him).

Getting back to the motel didn't take long normally, but he still had enough sense to avoid speeding because the last thing he needed was for a speeding ticket to become a DUI.

He managed to pull into the parking lot in front of their room in one piece. The urge remained to continuously look over his shoulder, like something was there and watching him, but nothing ever showed its face.

He made his way to the door, only to find it already ajar. Dean's alcohol-addled brain (even if the buzz was quickly fading as adrenaline took over) couldn't decide between throwing open the door and charging in, or using stealth to figure out the situation and use surprise if need be.

He threw the door open and turned on the light. The sight left him much more sober than he had been a minute ago. He wasn't sure at exactly which point he stopped breathing.

He took careful steps to the beds. The sheets of Sam's bed were in disarray and stained with blood. Another bloodstain was on the ground next to Dean's bed, a pool. Whoever was there was there for a while and bleeding out. His own silver knife laid next to that stain, and he hoped that Sam's hands spilled the blood. Not that the hands of strangers had spilled the blood of his brother.

In a last ditch cling to hope, Dean glanced at the bathroom. Empty and dark and open.

He fisted his hands into his hair, close to pulling chunks straight out of his scalp, and looked from one bit of evidence to the next. The blood. The bed. The knife. The emptiness. It all led him to the same heart-stopping, blood-freezing conclusion.

Sam was gone. Taken after a struggle that hadn't been enough to save him.

He messed up again and left Sam alone, and Sam paid the price for it. After Fort Douglas, he swore to himself that Sam would never be hurt again because of his misjudgments. He would never leave his brother so vulnerable when he knew the dangers they faced. Somewhere along the line, he must have forgotten about that promise because he was here and Sam was gone. They _both_ felt watched during the day, and Dean still thought that going to check out the rest of the hot spots they found by himself and then heading to the bar for a few drinks would be okay. That leaving Sam alone when children were being kidnapped would be okay. But he had been so sure that they hadn't been followed. So sure that Sam would be safer in the motel room and out of sight.

The universe just loved proving him wrong.

His senses kicked back in and he pulled his boxy cell phone from his pocket with a hand consumed by small tremors, swallowed past the lump in his throat, and dialed his father's number.

As much as it hurt to admit his failure, he needed his dad's help to ensure that Sam made it through alive because each second of pain and fear that Sam felt would be Dean's fault.

He prayed that his call wouldn't go to voicemail, that this would be one of the rare times that John was in a position and had the reception to answer. So when he heard static and a gruff greeting, he was torn between elation and terror. The blame for this was completely his, and maybe he should have listened and left the case alone. But that wasn't an option anymore because the assholes responsible made it personal.

He had to force the words out and couldn't keep his voice steady when he said, "Dad, we have a problem. Sam's gone."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Here's where the fun begins! Sam's not the kind to go down without a fight, and Dean and John aren't the kind to let something take him without a fight.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited. I'm glad that it sounds like so many of you are excited to see where this goes. There are some reviews that I wish I could reply to (or even just be able to read) on the first chapter, but is doing that thing again where the review count goes up, but the new reviews aren't displayed.

Leave a review and let me know what you think so far and what you wish to see in the future!


	3. Another Loss of Trust

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Hurt Sam, Sad Dean. Minor Language. Minor Violence.

 **Author's Note Part One:** I'm late! I'm so sorry, but I was unable to properly access computers or the internet for a fair portion of last week and could not work on this story. I did, however, do my best to make up for that and get this chapter uploaded.

* * *

"Sam is what?"

His father's tone made him suspect that John heard him perfectly, but wanted Dean to admit fully to his mistakes. Or maybe he just didn't want to think about his younger son being snatched in the middle of the night by God knows what when Dean wasn't there to do his job.

If he could just turn back time…

"Gone, Dad," Dean said. He had a sinking feeling that he hadn't felt in years. The one where he knew that he royally messed up and nothing he could do would reverse that.

"What do you mean Sam is gone?" John demanded.

Dean felt his mouth go dry and the words refused to come out easily. "He's gone. Taken."

"Where the hell were you?"

Each word was a nail driven through him—the really big ones used back in biblical times. If someone could just crucify him already, it would be less painful than dealing with Sam's absence and his father's anger at the same time.

"I was at the bar," he said, sounding more like a child than a 19-year-old. "I think it was the same people who have been kidnapping the kids in the area that I told you about before."

He added the last statement in an attempt to regain control over the situation, figure out a starting point for Operation Rescue Sammy, but the litany of muffled cursing coming from his father on the other end of the line told him it might not have been the greatest decision. Not that he could claim he'd been making many great decisions lately.

"God damn it, Dean. Do you even—" John cut off his own sentence with what sounded like a punch to the wall. A wall that likely gave way from the force of John's fist and was now sporting a hole from the sound of it. "I can't believe— _damn it_."

Dean heard the phone drop onto a hard surface followed by his father speaking, words inaudible over the phone and distant. Each second took a year to pass, but John was finally back on the other line. If only to bark out orders at Dean.

"Call the police, Dean. The second this call is over, understood?"

"But we never call the police," Dean said. Didn't John realize that this had become personal? He didn't want strangers snooping around. He could still do his job. With his dad's help, it shouldn't be difficult to find Sam. They hunted things, how could hunting people be all that different?

"Now is really not the time to argue with me, Dean. If you want what's best for Sam, you'll call the police," John said. He wasn't yelling, but the cold tone of his voice made Dean almost wish that he was being yelled at. "I'm on my way back right now."

John hung up, and Dean followed orders. The very thing he should have been doing since John dropped him off with Sam at that motel outside of town. He called the police and was promised that they'd be on the scene soon, but it would never be soon enough. He had no idea how long passed between Sam being taken (from his own bed, his mind helpfully reminded) and him arriving back at the motel room. The blood matted in the shag carpeting told him, with its faded shine and crusted sections, there was far too much time between Sam's kidnapping and his own return. The one thing he was grateful for was that he decided to turn down the woman at the bar instead of spending the night with her.

He sat at the tiny table while he waited, wreathed in guilt and his father's anger. He could handle a lot of forms of anger, but the kind so deep that it turned to disappointment and lost trust was not among those forms.

He would've given anything to switch places with Sam. Especially when he had no idea what Sam was facing. He would rather have known that Sam was safe (more or less) back at the motel and let those responsible for taking him do whatever they wanted to him instead. He had one job: watch out for Sam. He really messed up this time and wasn't sure that he would ever be able to make it up to either Sam or John.

* * *

His head throbbed, but he was on something almost soft. If only he could remember why a fuzziness plagued his mind.

The men. The motel. He stabbed one, he thought. Killed him, he hoped. Then, one stabbed him, only with a needle instead of a knife.

He brought up a hand and brushed his fingertips over his neck, finding the swollen injection site for whatever they gave him to knock him out.

It took a minute for him to pry open his eyes, and the lack of light helped immensely. He knew he was no longer in the motel room from the simple fact that this new place smelled infinitely better (though still not very great and contracting asbestosis might remain a threat even in the new place), but he didn't exactly know where he was instead.

It was small and the length and width formed a perfect square (and if only Dean were around to call him a nerd for mentally measuring the dimensions of the 'room'). The floor was tiled, but the tiles were filthy—covered in dust and debris—and some were cracked or missing pieces. There were two doors, but one didn't have any handles that Sam could see and looked more modern and cared for than anything else in the room. The barred windows started to help him form an idea as to where he had been taken and imprisoned. It looked like a rundown mental hospital. The kind that would be considered littered with unethical treatments and poor living conditions by modern standards. The kind that performed lobotomies because it was better to have a docile, brain damaged patient or risk them dying to become one, than to have a patient with a mind of their own.

Which begged the question: why the hell was he in an old, abandoned hospital?

God, his head throbbed, but he still pulled himself off of the thin mattress and wiry bed frame he'd been placed on at some point in his unconscious state. At least they hadn't touched his clothes, he didn't want to think about being stripped down by strangers. Keeping on bloodstained pajamas was by far the better option, and if he was convincing enough, he could just pass off the blood as him being a sloppy painter who was really fond of brownish-red instead of a sloppy stabber.

He stumbled across the room, ignoring the tiny stabs of pain in the bottom of his feet as he stepped on the bits and pieces of whatever composed the building that had broken down and made a home on the floor of his room, and opened the door with that had a handle. A bathroom. Plain and without any mirrors or glass. Couldn't have their prisoners offing themselves before they had the chance to do the job themselves.

Which begged another question: what the hell did they want with him?

Without much else to do, he sat on his pitiful bed and waited. If they wanted him alive, they'd have to come eventually to give him food and water.

He didn't have to wait very long before the door keeping him locked in opened (automated locks from the outside, it turned out) and a man with a tray of food (or a bowl of cold mush depending on perspective) and a cup of water (plastic, not glass).

The man was no hospital worker, not dressed in scrubs. No name tag. Nothing to distinguish him from any other man on the street. And that was the problem with human monsters. They look the same as every other human, no matter how twisted or monstrous they were on the inside. There's no test to be done that can set them apart like with most supernatural creatures.

He looked down at Sam with a smirk that was more of a leer and showed off his decaying teeth.

"Heard you're a fighter," he said. "Best part about gettin' a fighter is breakin' their spirit."

Sam waited until the man moved closer and bent to set the tray on the nightstand next to his bed, made of all chipped, rotted wood ravaged by time. Then, he kicked the outside of his knee and the man crumpled to the ground. Knees were only meant to bend certain ways.

The man fell to the ground and gripped his knee in both hands, breaths coming out in harsh gasps and hisses. "You're gonna pay for that, boy," he said, the threat falling short when his words were laced with pain.

Sam grabbed the tray and let the items atop it fall to the ground. He swung it down on the man. It wasn't extraordinarily heavy or dense, but the edge of it would no doubt be painful and leave marks.

Sam's sole regret of that day was that he only managed to strike the man three times with the tray before his ankle was grabbed and pulled until he fell backwards. The back of his head collided with the metal frame of his bed and he heard the ringing from it long after its echo faded from the room. He thought he felt the stinging heat of blood as it dripped down the back of his neck, but it was difficult to know for sure.

The man crawled over to Sam and wrapped his meaty, calloused fingers around Sam's neck and no amount of pulling in his dazed state could pry them away. He raised Sam's head and slammed it into the ground, refreshing the already present pain each time until the edges of Sam's vision blackened while the rest blurred.

"Gonna be sorry, boy," the man said from between grit teeth.

One more slam against the hard tiled floor and Sam fell limp, fading to unconsciousness.

* * *

John stormed into the room, and everything in Dean screamed to get out of the way of his father's wrath, but it was the least of what he deserved.

Half of the motel room was now blocked off with glossy yellow crime scene tape, but Dean had been allowed to take their duffle bags. He would have to leave behind his silver knife, seeing as it was now part of a kidnapping investigation, but he could part with his knife if it meant helping Sam. Hell, there were very few things he wasn't willing to do if it meant finding Sam.

Hard to believe that a matter of hours ago they were just riding in the Impala and hunting together, bonding almost. Sam may not have been one hundred percent with it, but he was starting to get over the mood he fell into since their most recent move.

John held out his hand, palm-up. "Give me the Impala's keys," he ordered.

Dean obeyed. He knew now what disobeying meant. The keys fell into John's hand. Some people felt like a weight was lifted when they relinquish their hold on an object, but Dean wasn't some people and he felt like a weight had been added when he turned the keys over to their original owner.

"Load up the bags in my truck and get in," he said. His tone was too strained for Dean's liking, and he was just waiting for the inevitable reaming coming his way.

"What about the Impala?" he dared to ask.

"Dropping the keys off with Caleb for now. He'll swing by later and keep it safe. Now, pack up and get in the truck."

Packing up meant 'toss the duffle bags into the trunk' and took less than five minutes. Then, Dean sat in the passenger seat of his dad's truck, wondering what was taking John so long in the motel room. He saw the silhouette of his shadow against the curtains and it looked like he was on the phone and having a heated discussion based on the waves of his arms. Gestures of anger that Dean witnessed far too many times, and had no delusions that he would be witnessing them often in the near future.

 _Calling in back-up to help fix my failure?_

Dean wondered if he would ever manage to regain the trust of his father, and more importantly of Sam. They both tried to warn him. Sam didn't even want to be part of the hunt, but Dean dragged him into it anyway. And now Sam was missing and his dad was pissed.

If John took much longer, Dean would have to leave the truck before he threw up in its cab. His churning stomach threatened to return-to-sender all the food he'd eaten that day.

Finally, John slipped into the driver's seat and they were on the road.

"I'm having a hard time even looking at you, Dean," he growled out after several minutes of silence. "You were supposed to watch out for Sammy, but you went to the bar instead! Why the hell did you leave him there alone?"

"I didn't know," Dean said. "I didn't think anything would happen. I was so sure we weren't followed. I just… I don't know."

His words sounded pathetic to his own ears and he couldn't imagine how they sounded to his father. Dean didn't fail to notice how his father's jaw clenched or how his grip on the wheel was so tight that his hands were nearly trembling. The music turned on low was out of place in the tense atmosphere of the truck's cab.

"You didn't think at all, Dean. I told you to leave it alone, but you just had to ignore me. Did that get you anywhere? Did you solve the case you wanted to take on so badly?"

"No, sir."

"No!" John echoed. "No, all you did was paint a target on your brother's back and then leave him alone for them to take."

"You know I would never want Sam to be hurt," Dean said, his sole defense. Every word from his father's mouth hurt more than a physical blow ever could. He knew his faults and knew that he majorly messed up this time around, but hearing it all verbally laid out for him was almost too much.

Was this how Sam always felt when he argued with John?

"Yet _you_ were the one who got him hurt, weren't you?" John asked. "Do you have any idea _why_ I told you to leave the case alone?"

"I might've if you gave me a reason," Dean said. "They were just _kids,_ Dad. We're supposed to save people."

"I gave you an order and counted on you to obey it; I shouldn't have to give you a reason as well. You can't save people from everything, Dean. Those kids weren't just disappearing, they were taken by human traffickers. This area has a ring of them, but the police can never pick up their trail because they move around the country too often," John said. Dean would've preferred yelling to the cold tone John had adapted. "You basically just got Sam sold into slavery."

Dean rolled down the window and threw up out of the side of the truck.

* * *

Sam woke up once again in pain and with only vague memories of what happened. Another head injury was the last thing he needed. He knew the risks of repeated head trauma, and none of them were things he wanted to face. None of them were things that the lifestyle his family lived would allow.

Memory loss. Erratic behavior. Balance issues. Frequent headaches. Frequent nausea and fatigue. Impaired cognition. Sleeping too much. Sleeping too little.

The list went on (thanks to his freshmen health class, where the biggest concern of most students involved contact sports), but Sam thought that he only had to worry about Dean or his dad being the ones facing head trauma. They were, after all, the ones who took blow after blow to the head during hunts. However, Sam was racking up a count pretty quickly in his feeble attempts to save himself.

But hey, better brain damaged than dead.

He tried to sit up, but his arms wouldn't quite obey and he glanced down to see them bound together.

"A zip tie? Really?" he asked his empty room. His captors were either cheap or smart as he couldn't pick the lock of a zip tie, seeing as it had no lock, and that was just great. He also didn't have anything sharp enough to cut it or enough room to wiggle his wrists free of its grasp. This was something that his father never prepared them for, but how could he have ever predicted that someone would use zip ties for restraints?

 _Could this situation get any worse?_

He felt a weight on his neck, on the verge of being tight enough to cross into being uncomfortable. He brought his hands up to feel it and could only conclude that it was some type of collar, smooth and made out of something hard, but nothing beyond that. Without a mirror, he wouldn't be able to inspect it with his eyes anytime soon.

If Dean wanted to play hero, now would be fantastic. Sam hated it, but he knew that he was going to need some help getting out of the mess he found himself in.

Sam closed his eyes and laid still on the mattress. He didn't have a plan, but maybe he could buy himself some time by pretending to remain unconscious for as long as they would believe it. It was a gamble on the hope that they would leave him be, that they would have no reason to bother him if he wasn't awake. If he was lucky, he'd be able to overhear them talking as they passed his room, or if they entered it and wanted to talk about him while he was unaware.

It wasn't much, but it was one of the few options he had with his hands bound. His legs remained unbound, which was one of the few silver linings he could find. He wished he knew what sort of collar they put on him, but at the same time he wasn't sure he wanted that particular answer.

He intended to fake his sleep to try and gather information, but he never intended to actually fall asleep.

* * *

John parked in the parking lot of the motel Caleb was staying at, nicer than the room they had, but in the middle of the town that John wouldn't let Sam and Dean stay in. The same place where he had been helping to finish up a hunt just hours earlier.

Dean followed him into the room, the reasoning behind his father's actions and orders before leaving to help Caleb blindingly clear now. If he could have just been patient for answers until after Caleb's hunt was over and the town was just a speck in the rear view mirror, Sam would have been with them and okay. Sam would have been safe.

John's anger could not match the anger that Dean felt towards himself. He almost thought he understood why some people threw themselves off of bridges because the burden of his emotions and mistakes was so great that they felt physically painful.

John tossed the Impala's keys to Caleb—who caught them with ease—and Dean felt another piece of his heart break having to part with another thing he loved.

Caleb looked confused and asked, "Wouldn't you two be able to cover more ground with two cars?"

John didn't even spare Dean a glance. "Seems that I can't trust Dean as much as I thought I could. Until he proves to me that he can handle a little bit of responsibility, the Impala is gonna be in your hands."

Each word cut into him and he felt like he was a ten-year-old in Fort Douglas again. On some nights, he still had nightmares of the way John looked at him while he sat on the bed and cradled a sleepy and confused six-year-old Sam in his lap, back when Sam was Sammy with no arguments or attitude. The way he looked at Dean like a stranger instead of his own son. The betrayal and anger. The look that screamed he was no longer trustworthy. That it was a mistake to entrust the care of something precious to him.

Dean didn't understand the extent of his father's anger until they arrived in Blue Earth and Sam was tucked away in bed, once again sleeping soundly and unaware as to what happened or why they moved so suddenly.

John pulled him aside and laid out the research for the Fort Douglas hunt across Pastor Jim's kitchen table. It was called a Striga. Some type of ancient, inhuman witch.

An ancient, inhuman witch that liked to feed on the life force of children.

For a few hours playing an arcade game, Dean almost let Sam be drained of his life by a freak in a black robe with a poisonous touch.

He didn't sleep that night and instead kept watch over Sam just to be sure that he was still alive. That Dean hadn't messed up badly enough to kill his little brother.

And he felt similar to that now. For a few hours spent at the bar, unwinding from the stress of a hunt he was never meant to take and a brother who was distant and moody, Dean let Sam be kidnapped by human traffickers. His dad had been right, and he might as well have just handed Sam over to them with his own hands.

Caleb, on the other hand, seemed to pity him. "You don't think that's a bit harsh on the kid, John?" he asked. "Look at him, he's beating himself up enough over this for all three of us. And then some, probably."

"If Sam doesn't make it out of this in one piece, this will look like a mercy," John said.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. He was tired, but knew he wouldn't find any peaceful rest knowing that Sam was gone and likely miserable and scared. Hurt, maybe, if the blood spilled on the carpet was his and not one of his attacker's.

And here he was, safe with his dad and Caleb, where the most he could do was take deep breaths and hold onto what little composure he had left.

* * *

Sam was jolted back into consciousness when the muscles of his throat spasmed and he gasped in an attempt to get air into his lungs before he suffocated. He was on the edge of unconsciousness again when the sharpest pain stopped and he could breath, despite the lingering ache and twitches of his throat. He coughed, but there was no way to cough up the lump in his throat that wasn't actually there.

"Easy, boy. Ain't gonna kill ya," a man said.

Sam barely had the strength to lift his head up for longer than a second to get a look at the man standing against the door of his room with a small black remote in his hand. He looked like any man pulled from the street after a day of work. A polo shirt and some khaki pants, the best business casual attire for any nine-to-five job.

"Though I should," he continued. "You almost killed a good friend of mine. Jack almost bled out after you stuck that knife in him. Doctors said that if it had been another inch to the left, Jack wouldn't have made it to the emergency room."

"Shoulda aimed better, I guess," Sam mumbled.

Sharp pain radiated from his neck again. He tried to reach his hands up towards it, but his movements were jerky and his body seemed unwillingly to obey commands.

He was gasping again with the sensation stopped. He knew it couldn't have been more than a few seconds, but when he couldn't breath or move properly, the time stretched on for much longer.

The man held up his tiny remote so Sam could see it clearly.

"Shock collar. Won't kill you, but it'll hurt like a bitch. Might even leave some pretty burns," he explained with a grin. "Specially designed by another good friend for use on humans. Yeah, a friend made this to keep _kids_ in line. Heard you and the other one at the library. Trying to play hero. Guess you landed in something a little bigger than you expected, seeing as we have connections in higher places than you can imagine."

The man spread his arms in a grand gesture to the room around him. "High enough places to hook us up with neat little storage areas like this, where no one is gonna bother snooping."

Sam ground his teeth together with enough force that he felt the start of a headache coming (though, being fair, that could also be due to the recent amount of blunt force trauma that has been inflicted upon his poor skull). He didn't want to encourage the mad man to press the little button on his little remote and let the shock collar light up his nervous system again.

"Heard you're a fighter. First Jack, then Old Harold. You know, he's gonna be in a knee brace and on crutches for weeks." The man whistled a low note softly. "I just hope we can break that spunk before you're gone."

"Gone?" Sam repeated before he could hold onto his stubbornness and keep his curiosity at bay, not that he was ever good at such a thing.

The man walked over to the side of Sam's bed, slowly and making sure the shock collar's remote was in Sam's view at all times, likely as a reminder to not try anything _or else_.

 _Or else they'll continue to treat me like a damn misbehaving dog._

"We don't tell the younger ones, but sometimes we let the older ones in on a little secret about what we all do for a living. And let me tell you, it makes for a pretty decent living if you know how to reel in the rich customers."

And for the love of God, just get to the point.

"You ain't going nowhere, kid," he said. "Except straight to the highest bidder."

* * *

 **Author's Note Part Two:** Sam's in trouble. Dean's upset and lost the trust of his father. John is angry and in mission mode. All part of the average Winchester experience. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter and I would very much appreciate it if you took a second to leave a review with your thoughts!

Thank you to those who review, follow, favorite, and simply read. Until next time!


	4. Another Day of Searching

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Some people get a little handsy, but nothing too bad. I prefer to not write sexually explicit material.

* * *

"Highest bidder?" Sam repeated. "What the hell? You can't sell me like property!"

The man smirked, the image of someone who knew they've already won. "Actually, we can. Been doing it awhile. Travel around the country, grab some kids that look like they can fetch a decent price—or are trying to play vigilante and catch us, in your case—then send them away to whoever wants them the most and is willing to pay."

Sam took deep breaths to keep his rising panic under control. If they sold him before Dean found him…

It was no longer a mystery why the kids who disappeared were never seen again. They were sold and sent away, the same fate awaited Sam if he couldn't figure out a plan.

The man laughed and left the room, the automatic door sliding back into place and a renewed sense of urgency filled Sam.

He got up and moved to the window, pulling on the bars keeping it blocked off. It might have been easier with his hands freed, but the bars were not rusted enough for their structural integrity to be compromised.

He checked and double checked the little bathroom, but these guys knew what could be within reach of their prisoners and what couldn't.

They were experienced, and that unsettled him more than any supernatural creature could. At least the behavior of the usual things he hunted could be excused by the fact that they were creatures driven by instinct and emotion. They wanted to survive, or to hurt others because they themselves had been hurt.

These were _humans_. They didn't have to kidnap and sell children, everything in their instinct was supposed to mark children as things to protect, not ruin.

He inspected every inch of both rooms twice before settling back on the bed that became more and more uncomfortable each time he laid down, feeling more helpless than ever before in his life.

John never trained them for something like this. What the hell was he supposed to do?

* * *

Dean lost Sam in a mall once, when the kid couldn't have been more than seven. Dean was just supposed to take him to the arcade to kill a few hours while John did a little investigating. One minute, Sam was trailing right alongside of him. The next, he wasn't. At the time, Dean thought that hour had been the worst of his life, but nothing could compare to how he's felt for the last forty-eight hours (forty-seven hours, twenty-three minutes, and fifty-six seconds, if he wanted to be exact).

They stayed at the same motel as Caleb, only a room away. One room, not two. They only needed two beds and that constant reminder didn't make it any easier on Dean. Hell, nothing could make Sam being gone—because of his mistakes—any easier.

John opened the door and stepped in. "Go to sleep, Dean," he said.

"Did you guys find anything?" he asked. He had been left in the room while his dad and Caleb tried to find a lead on Sam. He wondered if that's how Sam felt when Dean left him behind and hated that it took something like this for him to start understanding his little brother.

"No. We didn't."

"Then what do we do next?"

John looked over at him, but Dean couldn't find much more than exhaustion in his eyes. "Find a way to become bidders. See if we can find Sam like that."

Dean felt sick again. "We have to pretend to be… _bidders?_ You want us to act like we want to _buy_ a human child?"

John shrugged. "Caleb agreed to help out with it. Do you have a better plan?"

"Do you even know how to contact them for that?" Dean asked. "Jesus, they're just kids, Dad. We'll have to see what the bastards do to them."

"Are you afraid to see what they did to Sam because of your actions?" John demanded, each word strained with anger and worry. A break in his already unstable temper. "I might lose a son."

Dean bit his tongue and held back his words. He was afraid to see what happened to Sam, but he knew that they needed to find Sam at all costs because losing him was never an option. If John lost a son, it meant that Dean lost a brother.

He wondered for the hundredth time that night what possessed him to go to the bar and leave Sam behind. How could he have been so stupid? Why couldn't he have listened to John in the first place and left the 'case' alone?

Now he was sitting in a motel room that didn't smell of mold and rot, while Sam was out of reach and in conditions they could only guess at.

Dean promised himself that he would make all of this up to Sam once they found him, but where was he even supposed to start?

"Go to sleep, Dean," John repeated, back to sounded plain exhausted. "We're getting up early tomorrow. It's going to be a long day."

"Yes, sir."

Dean laid in the darkness and knew that sleep would once again elude him. It wasn't right for him to be safe and comfortable while Sam wasn't.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. If John heard, fine. If not, then maybe Sam would. Wherever he was. "I'm so, so sorry."

"An apology won't fix anything."

And didn't Dean know that.

* * *

Night was the hardest in that place, Sam learned. It wasn't because the building was haunted, in fact, he could've dealt with that just fine. It wasn't because of the darkness, he hadn't been afraid of the dark for years now. It wasn't because of anything in particular happening to him. It wasn't because of the chill that crept into the air with the sunset and the lack of warmth that the thin blankets lent.

It was the muffled cries that made it through the walls and into his room. The cries of the other children held there against their will, alone and afraid. Probably confused and uncertain about whether or not they'll ever see their families again.

Sam would be lying if he said he never shared some of those same thoughts.

He read once that isolation can cause a person to go insane, but it takes time. If they wanted to expedite the process, he would recommend adding the faint cries of children to the isolation because he felt ready to break with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to help them.

He wasn't cut out to be the hero like Dean was. He couldn't save himself, let alone others.

He wondered what Dean was doing. If he told John. If they were looking for him (they had to be, right?).

The only plan left to him was to thwart off potential bidders so he could stay in the same place long enough for his dad and Dean to find him.

They wanted him to be an animal with this collar? Fine, he would be an animal. He just wouldn't be the obedient pet they tried to condition him into.

If that back-fired, then he hoped that his family could at least make it in time to save some of the other kids locked away there.

* * *

John didn't need to wake Dean in the morning; he was already up. He had been up for hours, having spent the night restless and wrecked from tormenting what-ifs and guilt.

Only to be left in the truck while John and Caleb took point in this hunt and tried to talk their way into the human traffickers' circle as potential buyers. If he hadn't shown his face around where they hunted the children, Dean could have been involved. But they had to know him if they targeted Sam. They would have seen them together.

The feeling of being watched when he was alone was no longer the comfort he thought it had been when he left Sam alone. They stalked him and made sure their prey was vulnerable for as long as they needed to catch him.

Not being able to help was just another reminder that this was his fault and his punishment. His father knew what would hurt him the most without ever resorting to physical blows. He made Dean feel more like a toddler in constant need of supervision than the eighteen-year-old seasoned hunter he was, and the restrictions went against every bit of his need-to-be-free personality.

It felt like years passed by the time John and Caleb climbed back into the truck.

"Anything?" Dean asked.

Caleb shrugged. "Just being redirected to someone else, where I bet we'll be redirected _again_. Scum like these guys like to keep people running in circles. Try to weed out police and protect their hide."

"But we'll get through it eventually, right? We'll get to where Sam is?" Dean asked.

"Gotta, don't we?" Caleb asked. He shot a grin over his shoulder at Dean. "Someone has to teach these bastards that you don't go snatching children off the street and selling them like property, and I'm very willing to be that someone. Course I'd have to beat Johnny to it."

"They took my boy," John said. "That can't be forgiven."

Dean wanted to agree to that, but kept silent because he was the other thing that couldn't be forgiven and it was going to eat him alive. He joked that Sam had some freaky issue with always feeling guilty over things that weren't his fault or that he couldn't control. But if anyone in the family had guilt issues, Dean would put money on himself.

Caleb was right in that the next guy sent them to speak with yet another guy on the other side of town.

Who sent them to yet another guy.

And by the time they pulled into a diner parking lot for dinner, they weren't much closer to finding Sam than they had been that morning.

Caleb told them something like this would take patience, but neither John nor Dean were known to be patient men.

Dean didn't really taste the food placed in front of him, only wondered if Sam was being fed at all. And those thoughts were better to focus on than the dead silence at their little table (clink of silverware excluded). What were they supposed to say to each other? They were trying, but since John had last night, no one else wanted to bring up the possibility that they might not find Sam before he's shipped away.

"Maybe we're just not looking the part," Caleb said, he looked between Dean and John from across the little table. "I mean, the guys we talked to today had one of two looks. One: they were trying to hide their identity. The shady type. Two: they were confident and didn't bother. Suits and all, like they felt there was no way they could be busted."

Dean knew how far confidence could take a person in their lifestyle, but the idea of playing the part of someone who wanted to buy a human slave (a child, no less) didn't sit right with him. But if it was the best way to get Sam back as soon as possible, he'd swallow the rising bile and do it. At this rate, his esophagus was going to be burnt through with how often he felt acidic stomach juices trying to climb it.

"So you're saying you want to play dress-up with us, Caleb?" Dean asked with a shit-eating grin—that quickly faded from his father's withering glare.

"If you think that will work, Caleb," John said. "I'm willing to try anything at this point."

* * *

Sam didn't have much to do besides lay around and pace. The door opened regularly, but only long enough to toss in a tray of food (cold slop) and then collect it later. Since they told him that he'd be shipped to the highest bidder, he hadn't been in extended contact with anyone.

Until the man with his knee in a brace struggled into the room on his crutches. Harold, the other man called him.

Sam couldn't bite back his laugh, which earned him a few seconds of muscle-quacking electricity sent through his body.

Harold grinned at him as he caught his breath, now able to breathe again. "Not so tough now, are you?" he asked.

"Toss the remote for the collar and we'll see how tough I am," Sam said.

Harold reeked of sweat and body odor, like he had run a mile in the middle of a summer day before he got there. Each breath he took was more of a raspy gasp. But Sam imagined that with his out-of-shape body, walking on the crutches probably felt like running miles in the heat of summer.

Sam was tossed a few towels and a set of clothes.

"Get cleaned up," Harold said. "Gotta look presentable when bidders come through."

Sam was about to refuse, throw the clothes to the ground, and rebel, but Harold must have seen his intentions because he added, "Get cleaned up, or I'll call in some of the other guys and they will gladly clean you up."

Harold stepped closer (or hobbled, really) only to pull a knife out and cut the zip-tie around his wrists. He didn't think of it, but it'd be impossible to change clothes with his hands bound.

Sam felt the touch of phantom hands on his body, rough and violating. He shook his head and made his way to the bathroom, shutting the door to create a barrier between himself and Harold, but he still felt like there were eyes on him.

Even the shower curtain keeping him separated from the rest of the bathroom couldn't shake the feeling. The paranoia, and he wondered if he was starting to lose his mind there.

They gave him some shorts and a sleeveless shirt, confusing but making him infinitely glad that he wasn't a girl because he could only guess at what they received for clothing. He washed up and dressed, if only to avoid strangers forcibly doing the tasks for him.

He didn't have a mirror to look in, but now he was almost glad for that. He didn't want to see how he looked as their property, groomed and waiting to be sold.

Running a hand through the length of his hair, he wondered if they would be cutting that off. Taking another piece of his identity away, right after it was starting to grow back after he cut it from losing a bet with Dean.

Dean knew how much he hated having his hair short, and if he made it out of this and back to Dean, he wasn't going to let it be cut short ever again.

When he left the bathroom, he was alone in his room again. Harold must have left once he was sure that his orders were being followed. It was a simple fact, but brought both relief and fear with it. Harold forced him to become presentable, but to whom was he being presented? If they found a buyer for him already and Dean was still looking…

He could be shipped anywhere in the world and even Dean would have trouble following a trail like that.

He didn't know how long he spent pacing, looking at the automatic door locking him in every minute or so. But each stride across the tiles, counting how many steps it took to get from one side to the other, escalated his anxiety as his mind cycled through ever-worse possibilities about what comes next.

Then he heard voices grow louder as they moved down the hallway outside, and his door slid open.

* * *

Dean adjusted his hat again, hating the outfit his father and Caleb picked out for him, but it was the only way he could help in the hunt. They gave him baggy clothes, including a hooded sweatshirt that he had to pull over a baseball hat, and some sunglasses. One look in the mirror and he thought that he would be better suited to go record the next hit rap album, with the addition of a few chain necklaces, rather than go talk to human traffickers.

He spent the night researching what he could about trafficking, but each article only reinforced the weight of the guilt settled in his stomach. And if he went to bed, only nightmares about a bloody, empty motel room awaited him.

So he drank more coffee than his father and Caleb combined and trekked through the city with them. If the situation were not so serious, he would have had a field day making fun of their outfits as well. But he couldn't tap into that humor anymore without Sam around. Without knowing that Sam was safe.

Their first stop was tucked away through a series of back alleys, and Dean expected nothing less. He watched where he stepped, careful to avoid the abandoned needles and shards of glass on the cracked concrete ground.

Caleb slipped money into the hands of someone leaning against the corner of a brick building and they were waved through a door nearby with a knowing nod. Dean wanted to beat the man unconscious for nodding like he knew that they were just another set of scumbags that he directed to the right place to buy themselves some sort of human pet. Beat him for having anything to do with the operation. Didn't he care that he was knowingly ruining lives?

Dean followed them into the building, but it wasn't much of a sight. It smelled like rotted wood and the creaks that resounded from each step taken made it seem like a matter of time before the entire thing gave way to gravity.

There's a room at the end of a labyrinth of hallways (and didn't these guys just freaking love mazes in their buildings?) with a table. Three chairs on one side and one, occupied, on the other.

They took their seats and the man on the other side offered each of them a drink. Dean accepted it, but it was the first time in a long time that he didn't care to feel the slight burn of liquor and the buzz it brought.

"So, you're interested in purchasing some of our goods?" he asked.

Dean's hands clenched into fists under the table as he tried his best to not let the man see his internal rage. How dare he refer to _people_ , living breathing _people_ as if they were no more than objects.

"We are," John said. "We do some dangerous work. The kind that no one would willingly sign up for."

Stick to the truth as much as they could was the plan. They wanted someone strong enough to handle their line of work, and Sam might be skinny, but he wasn't weak. He fit what they were looking for. He _was_ what they were looking for.

The man looked surprised at that request, one eyebrow raised up. "We don't often get labor requests," he said. "We do, of course, get them now and again. However, most of our patrons are more interested in pleasure, rather than business."

Dean clenched his jaw. He didn't understand how John and Caleb could keep their expressions so neutral after a comment like that. If they didn't hurry, it could be Sam being shipped away for some pervert's pleasure.

"We aren't interested in that kind of pleasure," John said, tone as even as could be.

Dean knew he had to be feeling the same rage, but controlled it so expertly.

"We have an auction coming up soon. You can see if what you're looking for shows up there," the man said.

"How soon? We're on a bit of a time table," Caleb said, looking a little pale, but still holding it together.

"Two weeks until the next one."

"Two weeks?" John echoed. "Can't we get a look first? See if it's worth waiting that long to show up?"

The man shook his head. "You'll have to forgive me for not trusting new customers. Sneak peaks are only available to repeat buyers. Ones I know aren't going to sell me out or make a mess for me to clean up."

"You can't make an exception?" John asked.

"Afraid not," he said. "Those are the rules. Play by them, or find somewhere else to do your shopping."

"Fine," John ground out. "Where is the auction and when?"

The man held up his hand in the 'stop' gesture. "That's not how it works. Leave me a way to get in contact with you fine fellows, and you'll know what you need to know _when_ you need to know it."

Dean could see the tension filling John as he white-knuckle gripped the pen and wrote down his phone number. It was a miracle that the pen didn't snap and spill black ink across the table. John was the man who was always in charge of the knowledge, telling them things only on a need to know basis. To have that turned on him must have been eating him from the inside out.

If this didn't work out, an awful lot of people were going to have a very angry John Winchester to deal with.

They made it back to the motel in silence, but John left immediately to find a bar. Dean tried to take his mind off of everything with some mind-numbing television, but some thoughts just couldn't be numbed. Especially when one of those thoughts was that he would have to wait two weeks for even a chance at seeing Sam again.

* * *

Harold wasn't one of the men who stepped through his door, but one was the man who first used the shock collar on him. Two other men trailed behind him. Men that he had never seen before.

"Careful here, gentleman," he said. "This one's a fighter."

The new men shared a look that Sam couldn't quite read before their attention fell back onto him.

"You have ways to tame him?" one asked.

Sam felt the all-too-familiar jolt of electricity send him to the ground in convulsions, lasting much longer than earlier when Harold used it.

He was still trying to replenish his lungs with air when he felt hands on him. When he tried to squirm, another set of hands held him down and he felt a new zip-tie binding his hands, biting into the skin of his wrists.

"We have ways to tame him," the man said, "but he still fights with all he has."

"He's not bad," one man said.

"He's certainly got a pretty mouth," the other man said.

Sam felt his jaw pried open and fingers enter his mouth, feeling along his teeth. They tasted foul, and Sam bit down as hard as he could on them. Blood dripped into his mouth and it was the most he could do to hope that it wasn't diseased.

It took a knock to Sam's head, but the man managed to get his fingers free and yelled, "He bit me!"

Sam grinned, showing them his bloodied teeth.

"He's an animal!"

Sam watched one of the men escort the bloody fingered man out of the room before returning, and slowly sat up. The room spun and he added another head injury to his list.

"He's right, Jerry," the man who returned said. "This kid is an animal."

"He's still new," Jerry said. "Haven't had enough time to break him yet is all."

"No one around here is gonna want a kid like this," the man said. "The kid has the looks, I'm not saying that he wouldn't fetch plenty of costumers. But I can't have the risk of him physically hurting my clientele."

"He'll be subdued by the time the auction is held," Jerry insisted.

"Maybe, but it might be better shipping him off to the labor auctions. I imagine Old Mr. Rand and the like would be willing to have a bid war over him."

"You think?"

"Yeah, but getting him to their auction is going to be a chore."

Jerry snorted. "No kidding. That's a couple days of driving. And with a kid this feisty?"

"That's just my advice, Jerry," the man said. "It really isn't my business, but you'll get a great deal more money if you move him there. They can never seem to keep their kids alive long, so they always need a new one who looks fit enough to do the job."

Sam had to lay back down, if only to stop the nauseating spins of the room and ease his throbbing head. He heard the conversation, but it wasn't quite making sense in his head. They already had him here, why would they move him to be sold?

"No, you're right. If I want the most money out of the pain this kid is causing, I'll have to take him to the buyers who want a kid with a little spunk."

The man gave Jerry a few pats on the shoulder and said, "Good luck. Let me know next time you get a new boy since this one didn't work out."

Jerry nodded and knelt next to Sam after the man left. He held Sam's jaw in his hand and raised his head to meet his eyes.

"Better shape up, kid," he said. "You could've gotten sold into something kind of cushy. Unpleasant, sure. But you'd live. Looks like you're headed to the guys who don't care about your health as long as you do the job asked of you. They'll work you to death."

Sam was left alone on the floor, but he didn't have the energy to pull himself onto the bed. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against the cool tiles, wishing that they would swallow him before Jerry had the chance to take him away. Farther from his family.

He still felt the hands on him to hold him down and inspect him. He still felt fingers probing his mouth and could taste the blood. He wanted Dean to burst through the door and find him because he wasn't sure how much fight he had left, but at the same time he didn't want Dean to see him like this.

He just wanted to sleep, but he doubted that even that would be peaceful.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Sam is doubting himself and running out of fight. Dean, John, and Caleb are simply miserable. Fun times all around. As for Sam's mouth being inspected, well, ask and ye shall receive.

Fun facts: Prior to editing, Dean accidentally had multiple personalities. The clothes given to Sam changed about four times. John ended up going to the bar, he didn't in the first draft.

This chapter is kind of a bridge, but I hope it wasn't boring. Leave a review and let me know your thoughts!

Thank you to all of those who review, follow, favorite, and simply read!


	5. Another Loss of Freedom

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Hurt Sam and Sad Dean.

 **Author's Note Part One:** Happy Halloween, dear readers! My treat for you is an extra speedy update. A little shorter than other chapters, but still over 4k words. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

The waiting game would never be Dean's favorite, but he wasn't the only one fraying at the edges. John went out to the bars at night, and Dean sat staring at cell phones lined up on the motel room's table. He wasn't a praying man, but he asked every deity he knew that one of them would ring with news about the sick auction they needed to attend to see Sam.

He didn't know what Caleb was up to lately. Sometimes they'd all go to a diner together for a meal, but outside of that, he never saw Caleb.

He kept the TV on for background noise, the best company he was going to be getting any time soon it seemed.

As it got later, he lined up the phones on the nightstand between the two beds and lounged with his back against the headrest. He didn't expect sleep to come, but if it did he wouldn't be waking up with kinks in his back and neck from sleeping in a chair.

The late night news came on the TV and he watched. The story about missing children came on after the weather again. Another child went missing two days ago, their picture added to the line up. Just like Sam's had been.

Dean stared at the photo of his little brother with 'Sam Winchester' written underneath, hating that they had to relinquish his picture and name to the police like they would be better able to find him. He remembered the polite smile of the officer. The pat on his shoulder and an empty promise that they would do their best to bring Sam safely back to his family.

But Dean wanted to ask him about the other children. How could he make that promise when the police had yet to find any of the other missing children from when it all started six months ago?

Then the story was gone and Sam's face disappeared from the screen as well. Dean ran a hand down his face and ignored the burn behind his eyes because he would not cry. He didn't deserve to cry. This situation was the result of his actions, and Sam was still gone and paying for it. If anyone deserved to shed a few tears, it was Sam.

He didn't know what Sam would be like when they found him. He didn't know what he went through or how he would handle it all. Sam was strong, Dean would never deny that, but people could only handle so much before they broke.

Dean never wanted to be the reason Sam broke, but he'd still be there for him no matter what shape they found him in. That was the least of what he owed Sam.

Dean expected nightmares, how could he not when he experienced them himself every time he closed his eyes and he wasn't even the one going through the worst of it? If Sam needed comfort, Dean would be there for him. Wouldn't even call him a girl for it. He promised himself and absent Sam that he would be the big brother Sam needed him to be before.

He would've promised almost anything if it made a difference.

John stumbled into the room halfway through the night and brought the stench of alcohol and cigarettes with him, probably from the same bar Dean went to the night Sam was taken. The place was practically in a fog with all the smokers.

John took one look at the nightstand and asked, "No calls?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "It's been almost a week. Shouldn't we hear something soon?"

John sat down on the other bed, slouching and one hand pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut. Dean noticed how shadowed his face had become, the lines drawn on it from exhaustion and worry.

"I don't know, Dean," he said. "I just… I don't know."

Dean looked away from his father. He laid down fully on the bed and stared at the water-stained ceiling. This broken man wasn't the John Winchester he knew, but he couldn't blame him. John was put in an impossible situation and his only option was to wait and hope that the same strangers involved in taking his son would contact him with the only way they had that he would be able to see that same son again.

"Maybe they'll call tomorrow," Dean said.

He heard his father shuffle around the room as he prepared for bed and turned out the lights. "Maybe," he agreed, but Dean heard the doubt in his tone. He didn't believe that, but he wasn't about to crush Dean's hopes. And maybe he was trying to hold onto a sliver of hope himself.

Because what else did they have to hold onto?

* * *

Sam tried to rinse out his mouth with tepid water as much as he could in the bathroom sink, but days passed and he still tasted blood from biting the man's fingers. Jerry and his pals became more brutal in their treatment towards him, but he had yet to regret any of his actions.

He could see some of the bruises formed on his abdomen—they liked to kick people when they were down. Literally. He couldn't see his neck without a mirror, but he figured there had to be electrical burns forming from how tender his throat always felt. From how talking became more and more of a chore with his abused neck.

Each day he wondered if it would be the one where he would finally be shipped away. He never expected that he wouldn't realize he was being shipped until he was already in the back of a van with another kid, a boy around his age.

He couldn't remember a clear line of events leading him to the back of a windowless van (and wasn't every stranger danger PSA playing in his head now?), but he remember eating and feeling suspiciously drowsy afterwards. Drugged his food or water, most likely.

The other boy was still unconscious, and Sam wasn't sure if he should be grateful or concerned. They both had to have been drugged, but maybe they gave the other boy too much? Maybe they didn't drug the other boy and knocked him out in a little more physical manner? There were no signs of head injury, and Sam though maybe he shouldn't question this.

Each moment the boy stayed unaware was another moment of trauma spared.

The van didn't soften any jostling from uneven roads—which seemed to be the only roads it was traveling. Every bump sent more pain through Sam's battered body, but there was no way to maneuver into a position to fix that. With his head by the back of the seats up front, he couldn't even shift to see who was driving.

He thought he felt helpless before, but the universe had to prove him wrong and show that he could, in fact, feel even more helpless.

If the universe wanted to show him kindness for once, it would have the driver turn on the heat for the van. It wasn't well-insulated and he could feel the bite of the near-autumn air, a bite intensified by the fact that he wore just shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Wind whistled across the front doors, and some seeped into the van through the cracks as drafts.

The other boy shivered in his sleep, and Sam knew he wasn't the only one the chill was getting to.

But the universe was not kind and the heat was not turned on. The air only grew colder as they drove into the night before they finally came to a stop at a dumpy motel—the kind that John dropped him and Dean off at often.

Jerry and another man hauled them into the room, one after the other, while Sam thought about how long they drove to arrive there, how every minute took him farther away from Dean.

The two men took the beds in the room, and Sam sat on the floor with the other boy. As much as he wanted to try comforting the boy, Sam wasn't sure that his attempts would be recognized with the kid's semi-awake state. Besides, either of them talking would likely end in punishment for both of them. Sam was fine risking receiving punishment himself, but he didn't want to bring it onto someone else.

He really didn't.

But if there were a chance for both of them to find freedom, then Sam couldn't pass that up, regardless of the risk of punishment.

He waited for the men to fall asleep, and didn't mind when the other boy drifted off shortly after them. One man was meant to keep watch—the one who he had never seen before today—but he fell asleep almost immediately after Jerry did, apparently not seeing either boy as much of a threat or flight risk. Intimidation and fear might have been enough to keep their other victims in line, but Sam was never one to willingly follow orders. John Winchester could attest to that.

He crept through the room and slipped out of the door, almost tasting his freedom thanks to the carelessness of his captors.

* * *

"You can't live off of coffee, Dean," John said.

They both sat at the table in the motel room's kitchenette. Dean sipped his coffee, his third or forth cup. He didn't count anymore since the number would continue to grow throughout the day.

Dean shrugged. "I just need it to keep me going for now," he said. He didn't mention that John couldn't live off of Jack, but seemed to be trying to anyway.

John sighed. "Try getting some decent sleep," he said. "You don't have anything else to do until they call, and then you'll be rested for when they do."

Dean knew that I'm-not-in-the-mood-for-arguments tone and didn't want to push his father over the precarious edge of his emotional stability, it was only a matter of time before he lost his grip on the situation and went after the criminals to force information from them (and Dean would be right there with him). He didn't want to be on the receiving end of his father's anger again. Didn't want to go back to the cold silences and biting remarks.

The fact that John still looked at him with disappointment rather than pride tore him apart with every glance.

So he abandoned his coffee mug and went to lay down on his bed. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Caleb dropped off some recent newspapers. More kids are missing, so it might not hurt to see if I can find any useful articles," John said.

Dean wanted to offer his help, but he knew that he was still on hunter probation for the time being. Only help when asked. No difficult tasks. No tasks that required real responsibility. Quietly sit in the car and wait.

It was the middle of the day, and bright in the room even with the curtains drawn shut. Dean wasn't expecting to fall asleep, and wondered if John actually expected him to or just wanted to go through the newspapers without having to keep an eye on Dean like he was some sort of child in need of constant supervision.

John didn't argue when Dean turned the TV on, volume low, and let the news play over and over. It repeated the same hour's worth of content every hour, and every hour Dean watched Sam's name and picture show up on the screen for a minute or two before it was gone again. John kept quiet, but he glanced over at the TV every time the story of the missing children came on.

Dean listened to their theories about devil worship being the cause, but that would make it easy for them. Human trafficking was proving to be much trickier. Unpredictable. They needed to deal with humans who knew very well that what they did was wrong, but did it anyway by choice. Worse, they were good at it. Good enough to make it difficult for three experienced hunters of the supernatural to follow the trail of one child taken by them. Dean still felt dirty just from sitting across the table from the man apparently in charge of the local affairs for trafficking. Stronger, however, was his desire to hunt that man down and make him beg for mercy like he was certain so many of the children he sold begged for.

Dean spent the day like that, and stayed awake long after John shut the TV off and went to bed himself. Each day that passed made Sam's memory fade a little more, and he was afraid that they wouldn't find Sam and that his memory would fade to nothing more than a blur.

He tried to hold on to the memories from years ago, when they still had to share a motel bed. He held onto the memory of Sam's restless nightmares and his steady breathing when there were no nightmares to be found. He held onto the memory of Sam kicking him in the middle of the night with a mumbled 'sorry' afterwards.

He held onto any memory willing to surface and prayed that there would be chances for him to make more memories with Sam. To try and understand him through his teenage angst. To actually _listen_ to him like he should have been doing all along.

He almost managed to lull himself to sleep in that manner, until his phone on the nightstand flared into life with its obnoxious ringtone.

* * *

Sam made his way to the motel's front office, always checking over his shoulder to see if his captors heard him or woke up to notice his absence. He wasn't a great sight to behold, and the worker didn't know what to make of him judging by the odd mixture of confusion, concern, and hesitance on his face. But he was an older gentleman with a kind face and concern won out.

"I need help," Sam said. "I need to make a phone call."

"Rules say that I can't let you use the office phone, but there's a payphone down the street. What's wrong, boy?"

"The men who checked in earlier are human traffickers," Sam said. "They're trying to sell me."

The horror on the worker's face told Sam that he was not in on the trafficking ring, that he finally found an ally in this mess. He dug in his pocket and dropped a few coins into Sam's hand. When Sam went to withdraw his hands, the worker stopped him long enough to cut the zip tie off and free his wrists.

"Go to the payphone down the street," he said. "I'll call the cops and tell them they need to get over here. Don't come back until you hear the sirens and see the police, alright son?"

Sam nodded. He didn't want to return, but he might be able to at least find a place to stay until Dean could come get him.

The worker picked up the phone and shooed Sam out of the door.

Sam jogged down the street, the gravelly roadside rough on his feet. It took only a minute to find the payphone and he dropped his coins into it before punching in the numbers he knew by heart.

"C'mon. C'mon. Pick up already," he mumbled as the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Dean!" So he woke him up in the middle of the night, hearing Dean's voice was a relief he wasn't sure he'd ever get again.

"Sammy?" The sleepiness was wiped away from his voice and Sam didn't bother correcting the use of his nickname this time.

"Dean, they're traffickers. I got out of the room and the motel worker is calling the cops on them," Sam rushed to say. "I need you to come pick me up."

"Yeah, yeah. Of course, I'm coming to pick you up. Where are you?"

Sam looked around and found a large green sign, the motel must have been right off of the highway, albeit not a very large or well-kept one. "A couple of miles outside of Pittsburgh," he said. "There's a motel right next to the highway. They wanted to _sell_ me, Dean."

"I know, Sammy. But they aren't going to because the cops are on their way, right? And you're going to be fine because I'm on my way and bringing Dad and maybe Caleb along," Dean said.

Sam looked up when he heard a car coming down the road, and froze when that car happened to be the windowless van he was so acquainted with.

"Dean, they noticed I'm gone," he said. "They're coming to take me again, Dean. I don't know where."

He heard Dean talking on the other line, which turned into Dean yelling on the other line when Sam didn't reply.

The van stopped and the men got out. Sam dropped the phone, letting it hang down from its cradle with Dean's voice still coming through the speaker. He tried to make a run for it, but Jerry turned on his shock collar and he fell to the ground in spasms.

He was pulled up by his arms and dragged, half-stumbling, to the back of the van before he was tossed in next to the other boy.

Jerry leaned into the back and stuck a syringe's needle into Sam's neck, depressing the plunger. As the world faded around him, Sam heard sirens in the distance.

* * *

"Sam?" Dean asked. He gripped his cell phone like it was the only lifeline to his little brother, and in a way it was for the moment.

John woke up, and once he realized what Dean was talking about over the phone, he was preparing to leave without question and alerting Caleb.

"Sam!" Dean demanded. "C'mon, Sammy. Answer me."

He heard the yells in the background, the cry of pain, but refused to believe that it came from Sam.

The line went dead and Dean was forced to hang up on his end. He followed his dad and Caleb into the truck.

"He's just outside of Pittsburgh," Dean said. The truck was in motion before he finished the words. "They're moving him again though, sounds like."

John nodded. "We'll find them. Sammy gave us a lead we can work with."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "He did."

As proud as he was of Sam's resourcefulness in circumstances against him, the pure panic in his voice had Dean worried. What had he experienced? What would he still experience by the time they reached him? Pittsburgh was over nine hours away, and that meant they were getting a nine hour headstart farther away with Sam in tow.

"He say anything else?" Caleb asked.

Dean glanced at John, a little surprised that the question hadn't come from his father, but he understood. John's eyes were set on the road and his jaw clenched with dangerous promises to dismember anyone involved in his son's abduction.

"He got the motel worker to call the police, but it sounded like his kidnappers figured out he was gone and what was happening. He said they were coming to take him again," Dean said. He left out the part about Sam's voice sounding petrified when he said that and how it broke Dean's heart that his brother was so afraid while he wasn't there to make it better.

"Think they used their real names at the motel?" Caleb asked.

"Doubtful," John said. "They've shown us that they're too smart to make a mistake like that. They've been doing this for so long and haven't been caught yet."

"Sam's definitely testing that," Dean added. "About a week and a half, and he's already almost gotten them busted."

John nodded.

Caleb said, "I guess they didn't count on dealing with a stubborn Winchester. That might be his best advantage."

"I just hope that it's enough," Dean said before he could stop the words from leaving his mouth. He didn't want to voice the uncertainties they all knew, but being a Winchester was more of a curse than it was a blessing. That stubbornness would only get Sam so far until their bad luck reared its head again and made whatever Sam had to go through that much worse.

All they could do was find and rescue Sam before it came to that.

Dean stared out of the window and watched the landscape rush by. "We're coming, Sammy," He whispered to himself. "Just gotta hold on a little longer."

* * *

Sam came to in a new motel room, which he guessed was hours away from the first one. His head felt detached and foggy, but not painful for once.

"Finally comin' around, kid?" someone asked. Jerry.

Sam looked over at him. He was on the floor while Jerry sat comfortably on one of the beds.

"That was Rich's mistake falling asleep," he said. "But you won't be getting another chance to sell us out, I'm making sure of that."

Sam tried to respond, but the shock collar went off the second he attempted to say a word. Once he reoriented himself, he found himself looking up at Jerry's amused smirk.

"Had to give you a little upgrade. Anytime you try to talk, you get shocked."

Sam tasted fabric in his mouth, tied too tightly around his head.

"The gag is just an extra measure," he added. "We've been doing this for over ten years, and you're the first kid to almost bust us. You can bet that we really aren't going to be taking anymore chances with you."

Sam saw the other boy sitting against the adjacent wall, but he didn't have a gag. It was a small relief that Sam was the only one punished for his escape attempt, but the failed attempt made his feeling of helplessness return stronger. Strong enough to become despair.

What if that was his only chance and he ruined it?

He tried to move his hands, but they were bound again. This time with rope instead of zip ties. Sam couldn't ask why, but he suspected that they might not just carry zip ties with them. Or that they hadn't expected resistance and didn't think they needed anything for binding. Rope could be bought at a lot of places, no questions asked, and Sam wasn't sure how long he was out from whatever Jerry injected into him.

"Better get used to obedience," Jerry said. "It's the foundation of your new role in life. Buyers don't give a damn about the things they buy. It does its job, great. If not, well, you won't be in for a good time. Or a long life. Best learn now and save everyone the trouble."

All Sam could do was glare at Jerry. He tried to kick at him, only to find his ankles bound like his wrists. He could squirm all he wanted, but he wouldn't be accomplishing much of anything in this state.

The man Jerry called Rich came into the room with bags of fast food. Him and Jerry took the majority and gave a little bit to the other boy, but Sam was given nothing.

"Deprived yourself of a meal," Jerry said. "Could've just played along and earned yourself some food, but you go making things difficult for us and you make things difficult for yourself."

"Don't you get it, kid?" Rich asked. "The only damn we give about you is the price we can sell you at. We sell you half dead, and that's not our problem. Whatever life you had before this is over. You're just another thing."

Sam once again spent the night wishing the floor would just swallow him. They were able to turn him into an object so easily. They didn't see him as human, he was just another thing to them.

What if this was all his future held?

No one saw his tears fall in the dark of the room, the others were sleeping. He wished that he could reach out to Dean somewhere, give him a trail to follow. But the most he could do was pray that his family could save him from this because he wasn't going to have anymore chances to save himself bound like this.

That was the first night where he truly felt less than human.

* * *

 **Author's Note Part Two:** Sam almost tasted freedom, but Winchester luck did win out again. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, leave me a review and let me know!

Thank you to everyone who reviews, follows, favorites, and simply reads. Knowing that you guys are enjoying my work keeps me grinning like an idiot!


	6. Another Kid in Line

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Extremely mild language. Hurt Sam. Depressed Dean.

* * *

Sam felt the rope burn on his wrists from his struggles in the back of the van, his skin cracked and bleeding periodically while the ropes never slackened. The soles of his feet burned with microscopic cuts from running over gravel. The jostling of the van as it cruised over unkempt back roads left him nauseated, but there was nothing in his stomach for him to throw up.

Jerry and Rich had yet to give him food since his escape attempt the previous night. He wouldn't starve to death, not unless this treatment went on for awhile. They only needed him alive. They didn't need him to be well besides.

The other boy in the back of the van with him never spoke. He mostly tried to sleep, but it was easier on him. His wrists were bound in front of him with a zip tie, that hadn't changed. He could shift himself into more comfortable positions. He had a black collar around his neck that Sam suspected was a shock collar, just like his, only his never went off. On its own or from the remote. The other kid never disobeyed, so there was no reason to shock him.

Sam's situation was much different, with his hands tied behind him with rope in the same manner as his ankles. The shock collar that went off every time he tried to make a noise and the gag didn't help.

Jerry and Rich talked in the front seat now and again, usually about nothing. Some times about the upcoming auctions, but never enough for Sam to really understand what he was headed into. Most times the van was silent except for the monotonous lull of talk radio.

It gave Sam too much time to think about his future and the possibility that he wouldn't be rescued from this. Maybe he was already too far gone. A lost cause.

It was bad enough that when Dean called his name over the phone, Sam realized that he hadn't heard in his first name in a long time. They never used it. Never asked. He was always just 'boy' or 'kid'.

He didn't need to question why. It was another way to show that he held no value beyond a price tag.

He tried to hold onto Dean's voice from the night before. He tried to hold onto Dean's promise that, of course, he's coming. Like there could be any other option. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was all he really had now. Promises and hopes.

"Gotta feed the kid sometime if we want him to fetch a decent price," said Rich from the front seat. "If he looks too scrawny, no one will bid."

"We'll pick up protein shakes in the next town," Jerry said. "Shouldn't take much more than that to keep them going. Cheaper, too, than buying actual meals."

"That gonna be enough?" Rich asked.

"It'll be enough to keep them alive," Jerry said. "You've seen the kids at the auctions. Most of them are scrawny, and it's not that much farther. We'll stop once more tonight and be there by mid-morning tomorrow. Protein shakes will be just fine."

It wasn't choice. It was survival dictated by strangers. Sam couldn't remember the last time he had a meal of his own choosing, one that he enjoyed instead of ate out of necessity.

At this point, being in a car accident would be a blessing. Hard to hide kids when the vehicle is smashed and the police are involved.

Were he less bound, Sam would have his next plan for escape. Causing an accident wouldn't have been hard at all. A little driver distraction and back roads had plenty of ditches for them to roll the van into.

His regret was not thinking of it earlier, before they started using extra precautions with him.

When Rich stopped the van, it lurched forward. Sam's head hit against the back of the front seats. He couldn't bite back the gasp from surprise, and it set his shock collar off.

No one spared him so much as a glance, and Jerry left the van.

Rich tapped his fingers against the steering wheel to a rhythm that only he heard.

If it was Dean at the steering wheel, he'd be tapping the beat to a Led Zeppelin song. He always did. Music was Dean's way to keep calm in their hectic lives, a measure of comfort. Sam never said it aloud, but it was a comfort to him as well to hear his brother tapping a familiar song.

Jerry returned with a box covered in the words 'protein shake' and 'best nutrition for low prices'. He pulled out one bottle and opened it, handing it to the other kid. He took it without complaint and drank like he hadn't had water in days, but maybe he didn't.

Sam didn't realize how thirsty he was until he saw the kid drinking the shake—a classic vanilla protein shake. He wanted water though, protein shakes tasted chalky and left him thirstier than before he drank it.

Rich slipped his hands under Sam's arms and sat him up against the seats. Rich turned Sam's head so that he faced Jerry and removed the gag.

Jerry unscrewed the bottle's top and held it to Sam's lips, but Sam kept his mouth firmly closed. He didn't want any of it, and he definitely didn't want to be fed like a child.

"Open your mouth," he said.

Sam turned his head as far away as he could with it grasped in Rich's hand, so Rich gripped tighter and forced him to face Jerry.

Then there were fingers prying open his jaw and warm, vanilla protein shake being poured into his mouth. He gagged at first and tried spitting it out, but his head was tilted and a stranger's hands were in more control of his mouth than his own muscles.

Rich held his jaw back shut when his mouth was full. Try as he might, Sam could not twist away or spit it out.

It became a process of gagging and choking down mouthfuls of the shake against his will. By the end, he felt nauseated and his jaw hurt like it had been the victim of Dean's left _and_ right hook. With the gag back on, he prayed that he wouldn't throw up. Something told him that Jerry and Rich would let him choke on his own vomit and write it off as just a small loss before they ever helped him. No big deal. They'd probably bury him with a price on his headstone.

Actually, they probably wouldn't bury him at all. Leave him on the side of the road and sell what they still had. Let some random passer-by find his sun-baked corpse.

His thoughts made him feel sicker the more he followed them down into the crevices of his mind. If he never saw a protein shake again, he could die happy. He still wasn't sure the one just forced down his throat wasn't about to make a reappearance, and he had no idea how long it would be before they stopped so the rocking of the van would stop as well and give his churning stomach a break.

* * *

The nine hour ride was torture (more than nine hours, but only just). Dean used all of his willpower to not bash his brains in by repeatedly hitting his head against the window.

If he was in Baby, it wouldn't be so bad. He'd push the gas pedal down as far as he could and trusted her to get him to Sam safely and swiftly, she knew the stakes. Caleb promised that the Impala was safe in his friend's lot until they could go back and get it.

His dad's truck didn't understand the importance of keeping their family together, it was always too willing to drag John away to hunts while Sam and Dean stayed in another no-tell motel with thin walls that spelled sleepless nights.

He was starting to understand how Sam had so much difficulty sleeping. The kid ran on caffeine most days, and complained when Dean told him to try getting real rest instead of relying on coffee. Maybe he wasn't complaining to be a pain in the ass, but he complained because he really couldn't sleep in the conditions in which they had to live.

Once they had Sam back, Dean promised he would insist that they stayed at places a little nicer from now on. Help Sam get the rest he needed and would need from dealing with everything.

Sam always looked at peace when he watched signs pass by telling them how far each city was. Dean didn't understand that, especially now when each sign added to his anxiousness.

Pittsburgh was close, but they would have to circle around it since Sam said he was outside of Pittsburgh when he called.

Dean had every word Sam said over the phone memorized. He replayed it over and over in his head on an endless loop until the words didn't even sound English. He remembered every hitch in Sam's breath and the pure panic that he would be caught again. Then the terror from when he _was_ caught again.

"I'm guessing that wherever they had Sam was close enough to Pittsburgh for their police department to be dispatched," Caleb said, breaking a long silence. "That's probably where we want to start. Hopefully, they have a report about the call."

"So, feds," John said.

"Feds," Caleb confirmed.

Dean sank lower into his seat. John and Caleb being feds meant that he would be left behind in the car again while they talked to the police. On another day, John might let him tag along as a trainee, but Dean felt that those days were over.

John parked in front of the police station, and Dean sat watching pedestrians walk past the truck and wondering how many of them were involved in the sick, underground world of human trafficking. How many of them knew what was going on in the city around them? Were they as blind to it as Dean had been?

His legs were cramping, they had been for about the last seven hours, but he couldn't get out and stretch them. He was expected to sit patiently in the car, but he was minutes away from hot wiring his father's truck and searching out Sam on his own.

Too long passed since Sam called, and he could be anywhere again.

John and Caleb returned hours later (or about fifteen minutes later, if he were to believe his watch).

Dean sat up straighter and hovered over the edge of the front seats. "So?" he prompted.

"There _was_ a police reported filed about the situation. They talked to the man working the motel's desk, who said that a kid—matching Sam's description—told him that some men were trying to sell him. The worker gave the kid some coins to use the payphone down the road, called the police, and that was it. He saw a car drive down the road from the parking lot. When the police arrived, there was nothing for them to find," Caleb said.

"So, a dead end?" Dean asked. They couldn't have come this far just for a dead end. Dean would tear the city apart if he had to, just to find something, anything, to keep the trail going.

"No," John said. "We'll talk to the motel worker. Find out which direction they drove in. If they were driving all night, then they probably only went far enough to keep the police off of their backs and found another place to spend the night."

Dean sat back into his seat, and they took off towards the motel. Dean spent the entire ride tracing the little, golden charm hanging from his neck, wishing that it could act as a conduit to convey his comfort to Sam. To let Sam know that he was still there for him, whether or not he was physically present.

* * *

Supper went much the same way as lunch, only Sam did throw up from being forced to choke down another protein shake. He threw up mostly on Jerry, but a little bit on Rich's hands from him trying to keep his mouth open.

Rich left while Jerry got cleaned up, but not before he got a couple of kicks in at Sam, which almost led to another round of throwing up.

Once Rich returned, with a plain, white t-shirt in his hands, and Jerry was cleaned up, they cut away Sam's sleeveless shirt, stained from his sickness.

Rich untied the ropes binding Sam's wrists and tried to hold his arms down, but Sam jerked free. He threw a punch at Jerry, catching him in the jaw. He hoped it hurt as much as his own jaw did after their force-feedings.

They cursed and Sam thrashed until his shock collar was turned on and only turned off when he was on the brink of unconsciousness.

His more pliant, but mostly limp, limbs were maneuvered into the arms of the shirt and it was pulled over his head before the rope was retied around his wrists.

"Woulda been easier to leave him in the other shirt," Rich said.

Jerry shook his head. "It'd discourage bidders to have vomit stains his shirt. You're still new, but you'll learn quickly that appearance is everything in this line of work."

Aftershocks caused minute, painful spasms to course through his body. Sam researched the effects of electrical shocks once after Dean had a run-in with the police that ended in him being tased, and none of them were things he wanted. Some of them would affect his ability to hunt, and he would become a burden on his dad and Dean if it came to that.

The lights in the motel room were turned off and Sam laid staring up at the ceiling. The other boy snoozed with soft, even breaths, but they became difficult to hear when Rich fell asleep because he snored. Jerry slept soundlessly, unless he shifted positions.

Sam didn't sleep at all.

Every nerve and muscle in his body begged for rest after over a week of brutal treatment, but rest refused to come. The little twitches of his muscles and lingering pain from the shocks weren't doing him any favors, but when he closed his eyes, his mind raced to figure out what would happen next. Unless Dean magically appeared to get him out, he was running out of options. He had run out of options.

By mid-morning tomorrow, he'd be at the place of the auction (whether or not the auction took place tomorrow, he didn't know). The word 'processing' came up a few times during the car ride, but never enough was said for Sam to grasp what it meant in terms of human auctions. Sure, he'd heard the word used when it came to police processing criminals, but how were human slaves processed?

He wasn't sure he wanted that answer.

All he really wanted was to sleep on a real mattress without deep, lingering pain keeping him awake.

More than that, he wanted to see his family again.

* * *

Dean was left outside of the motel when his dad and Caleb went in to ask about the worker from the night before. Being an outsider from his own family was new to him. Being exiled from a hunt where there was no reason for him to not help (besides lost trust) was new. Dean spent his entire life confident in his identity as a hunter, as a big brother, and as a son. But now with those identities stripped from him, he didn't know who he was anymore.

Worthless? No, he could still be of some use. He could help if they'd let him.

A failure? Definitely.

He walked along the highway. They said the police report had something about a payphone, so he walked until he caught sight of it. Each step crunched gravel underfoot, the usual swagger in his steps vanished over a week ago with Sam.

The phone was still out of its cradle and dangling down, connected only by a thin wire.

Sam was here a matter of hours ago. Sam was here, and he called Dean out of everyone else. He called Dean, even though Dean was the one who messed up and got him in this situation in the first place. Despite all of that, when he had one chance to call for help, Sam still called Dean. He held onto that fact and hoped it meant that Sam could forgive him after all of this was said and done.

Dean placed the phone back in its base. He looked around at the gravel for signs of a struggle that he knew took place there, but found nothing. Gravel was too easily displaced. It didn't look any different around the payphone than it did anywhere else.

He's not sure what expected, but the last time he came across the place where Sam was taken, there were bloodstains and signs of a struggle. Here, none of that existed, like Sam's path never led here when Dean knew for a fact that it had.

Torturing himself over it wouldn't help, so he walked back to the truck and climbed in to wait for John and Caleb.

He didn't have to wait long; they were out in a matter of minutes. John hid it well, but years of practice taught Dean how to spot his father's veiled frustration. They hadn't gotten the information he wanted in the motel. They were losing Sam's trail again. He could be anywhere, literally anywhere on Earth, and Dean had to hope that they could grasp onto some thread and follow it to Sam.

John started the truck. "The worker who called the police will be there tonight," he said. "We'll come back then."

"You couldn't get his address or something? A phone number?"

John shook his head, and the lines of his face grew more pronounced in subtle anger. "They refuse to give out employee information like that, and we left our badges in the glove compartment so we had to go in as concerned family members."

* * *

They returned at night, and Dean was pleasantly surprised when he was invited to talk to the motel worker with them. If they were going in as concerned family members, Dean fit the description.

The front office smelled like old coffee and rotted wood, signs fitting the type of motel Sam and Dean usually stayed at.

He wasn't sure what he expected the worker to be like, but it wasn't a man who looked like the stereotypical, kindly grandfather on cheesy TV movies.

"You're that boy's family?" he asked when he caught sight of them. "My boss said you'd be by to talk with me. I'm so sorry that I couldn't help him."

John showed the man a picture of Sam. "This was the boy you talked with, right?"

The man nodded. "That's him. He looked a lot worse for wear though. Some strange, collar-like necklace. Plain clothes that were kind of dirty and disheveled. He didn't even have shoes, which probably made his trek to the payphone quite painful."

John and Caleb exchanged a glance while Dean wondered about the strange necklace. Usually those words were used to describe the amulet Sam gave him for Christmas as a child.

"What can you tell us about the men who checked in?" John asked.

The man shrugged. "They just looked like average men. I didn't suspect a thing. If I had…"

"Please, give us anything to work with," Dean asked. "You tried to help, but you still can if you set us on the trail after them."

"They drove a white, windowless van, but I couldn't catch the license plate. The van tore out of the parking lot and went West."

 _And picked up Sam from the payphone on the way,_ Dean added in his thoughts.

"Thank you," John said. He wrote down his phone number on one of the little pads of paper scattered across the front desk. "Please call me if you remember anything else or find out anything else."

"It's not my business, but shouldn't you let the police handle something like this?" the man asked. "Human traffickers. God, I never imagined that would be going on in an area like this."

"Wouldn't you do anything you could to get your son back if he went missing?" John asked.

This was the father that Dean didn't realize he missed until now. The protective, family man who would kill anything to ensure the safety of his sons. The man who would storm through Hell if he had to. If it meant getting Sam back. He was angry and determined, not broken in the way that Dean felt.

"I guess I would," the man said. "I hope you find your boy alright, and if you do, be sure to put a bullet between the eyes of the men who took him. No child should be in his position."

The murderous request sounded strange coming from a man who looked like he was doing his best Mr. Rogers impression, but he didn't have to ask such a thing of them. When they found Sam, Dean knew that no one involved in his kidnapping would be walking away unscathed.

Winchester justice was a thing to be feared under normal circumstances, even when Sam's safety wasn't involved.

"Believe me," John said. "None of the bastards responsible will see the light of day again once I get my hands on them. And I _will_ get my hands on them."

* * *

The van was parked and the doors to the back opened. The other boy was let out first with an order to follow behind them, but he never fussed or disobeyed so they had no reason to worry.

Sam knew that he was the source of a lot of frustration for Jerry and Rich, but they had to cut the ropes around his ankles and have him walk into whatever sort of place conducted processing for human slaves. It would lower his price if he looked like such a pain in the ass that he had to be carried in (paraphrasing Jerry's words from during the ride).

Rich and Jerry each had a hand wrapped around his upper arms and pulled him in; their grip hard enough that Sam wouldn't be surprised to see hand-shaped bruises form later. He was dragged into what looked like nothing more than an abandoned, large warehouse, but when he passed through the doors, he found that the inside was far from abandoned.

They joined the end of a line of grown men and women shepherding in young boys and girls (mostly boys, but 'labor auctions' had been mentioned multiple times on the ride over and Sam imagined most girls were sold into a different market), all in plain clothing and looking worse for wear with their shiny, black collars. Some of them were crying, others sniffled and choked back sobs.

Sam wondered if the line ended with a tattoo chair and a number permanently scrawled onto his arm like in the 1940s.

The line moved slowly, and Sam assumed this was whatever processing was and not the actual auction. The auction probably involved a lot more activity, not a line-up.

Waiting allowed his thoughts to wonder and each train of thought became darker than the last. What if processing meant killing off the kids that they didn't think they could sell for enough? That they didn't think would sell at all? The idea of being a slave wasn't one he liked, but Sam would take it over being dead. At least he still had hope of escape if he was alive.

About halfway through the line, his thoughts turned to the ceiling and he wondered if it would crumble down on top of them before they made it to the end with its dilapidated state. It looked ready to collapse from the force of a mere breeze. Maybe even a simple raindrop would be enough to topple it.

Then they started getting close to the end of the line, and Sam was pretty sure his skin lost a few more shades of color. He would have preferred the tattoos.

They were restraining kids in a twisted barber's chair and shaving their heads. He wanted to run, but Rich and Jerry kept their grip on him and he didn't have anywhere to go.

His turn came too quickly. The rope was removed from his wrists and he was strapped into the chair, bound by his wrists, ankles, and across his shoulders. The only parts of his body that he could still move were his fingers, toes, and head, but he didn't want to move his head with the dull buzz of an electric razor humming about his ears. His hair was just starting to finally grow longer again, too.

He sat and stared at the wall ahead, feeling the barber's progress as patches of his scalp grew cold as hair was removed. He felt something that he couldn't remember ever feeling before, a feeling he almost couldn't place: resignation.

This was it. This was really it. His forced entry into a life he would never want, a life worse than hunting. Hell, he'd be glad to go back to hunting instead of this.

But he was being sold. Like an animal. Like an object. Was it possible to strip someone of their humanity so thoroughly that they stopped being human?

Everything around him faded and he stayed still through the duration of his haircut (which took only a matter of minutes, but felt like years). He didn't realize it was over until the chair was spun around to face a mirror and the restraints were released.

Sam stared into his reflection in the mirror, but he didn't recognize the boy who stared back.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** None of our beloved characters are having a good time, and even worse, Sam is losing his fight. Who wants to see Sam shipped out of the country, or would you rather see him stay in the States?

Thank you everyone who reviews, follows, favorites, and simply reads. If you want me to grin like an idiot, leave a review on your way out and let me know what you think!


	7. Another Piece of Property

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Language. Mild violence. People get a little hands-y, but mostly implied.

* * *

Dean was going to tear his hair out. He was going to rip every, single strand out and throw it to the ground.

They spent a day and a half going to every place of lodging in a two hour radius of Pittsburgh, but not a single one remembered having any customers like the men who had Sam. Which meant they really didn't remember, they didn't have them as customers, or they were in on the whole human trafficking thing.

All were terrible options.

And none of them wanted to admit it, but Sam's trail was growing cold quicker than they could track it. It was only a matter of time before they lost it completely again. John hadn't spoken in hours outside of questioning motel workers. His desperation was rising, and his anger along with it.

Even Caleb became more subdued as the trail died. As the reality that this might be it started to sink in for all of them.

Dean passed his time alone in the truck by watching passers-by on the sidewalk and cars drive past him, wondering how their worlds could still be spinning even after his stopped.

When John and Caleb came back to the truck after questioning the final motel in the area with dark expressions, Dean wondered if he somehow managed to take the phrase 'eat your heart out' literally because it certainly felt like his heart was in his stomach and missing from his chest.

They slumped back into the seats of the truck, and John ran a hand down his face. Dean noticed how new lines etched themselves on his father's skin everyday and how grey strands were becoming more common in his hair. This was wearing on his father, maybe even more than it wore on Dean. He might not have been the perfect dad, but he did his best and loved both of them. How could he deal with his son being sold like an object?

If John figured out the answer to that, Dean wanted to know it, too. But he was pretty sure that there was no way to cope with losing Sam besides alcohol, violence, and women. Even those vices would never be able to dull his absence.

"What do we do now?" Dean asked. He tried to keep his voice from cracking, but he still remembered the terror of Sam's voice from the single phone call he received and it leaked into his own words.

John sighed, turned on the truck, and made a U-turn. "We're going back to Massachusetts," he said.

"What? Why?"

That was over nine hours away, and Dean would bet anything that the traffickers wouldn't take Sam back to the very place they took him from.

"Because playing nice is clearly getting us nowhere," John said. "These bastards took my son, and we tried playing the games by their rules."

Dean met his father's eyes in the rear view mirror, but they were the eyes of a hardened marine on a mission. "They're going to be playing by our rules now," he said.

Dean wasn't allowed caffeine for the duration of the trip back in hopes that he would get some sleep, but Dean couldn't sleep. Not with the adrenaline pumping through his veins at the thought that they were taking control of the situation. He hated having to play by a stranger's rules just as much as John did.

He knew his father meant business, and he looked forward to seeing the men selling Sam writhe in pain until they screamed where he was taken.

That? That was a plan he could roll with. That was a plan that got answers and, more importantly, got Sam back.

* * *

Sam didn't know how long he spent tucked away in another health-hazard motel. He hated how drafty rooms felt without the insulation of his hair. Just another discomfort added to his list. Another piece of his new, miserable existence.

There wasn't much use in trying to keep track of time, so the time spent in the motel was divided differently in his mind. It started with the period spent laying on the stained carpet and watching the door, waiting for Dean to kick it in and save him. Then, when he rolled onto his back, it was the period of staring at the ceiling and wishing that it would just fall and crush him already. The period of vanilla shake forced down his throat marked the passing of a meal, but he wouldn't have been able to say which one. Then it turned into the period of him curling up on his side and keeping his back to the world. That way he could almost pretend that it was all just another nightmare. That he would wake up any minute.

Jerry and Rich hadn't bothered to retie the ropes around his ankles, but he wasn't showing much fight lately. His wrists, however, were kept tightly tied behind his back. His shoulders were becoming sore from the strain and he really needed to stretch his arms out.

The other boy laid so quietly sometimes that it left Sam wondering if he was still alive, but the soft breathing always confirmed that he was. He used to think a lot about how he ended up in this situation. About how the other boy might have ended up in this situation. He had too much time to think when his only task was to be on the floor and quiet. When the only job expected of him was to keep breathing.

At some point, he just stopped thinking. Everything became a blur and he couldn't remember much of what happened or what was said. But most of the conversations between Jerry and Rich were about him, not inclusive of him.

He didn't know at which point he stopped caring.

Or at which point he gave up waiting on Dean to kick down the door and pump Jerry and Rich full of bullets. He managed to get a call through to Dean, but nothing happened afterwards. Sam tried to hold onto Dean's words telling him that he was on his way, but they were starting to slip through his fingers.

Would he forget Dean completely if this kept up, if this was all the future held for him? Would Dean forget him given enough time?

Sam wished that he had thought to tell Dean that he didn't blame him on the phone. Knowing Dean, he was beating himself up over all of it with the idea that it was all his fault (and maybe a decent portion of it _was_ his fault, but Sam understood why he tried to take on the case). He just wanted to save some kids, and Sam knew now that he wanted to save them, too. He knew now that none of them deserved what they went through and were still going through.

He hated that it took something like being taken by human traffickers to make him understand his brother. To help ease the disconnect growing between them as they grew up. As Sam grew up.

But no matter how grown up he was becoming, he felt that it wasn't unreasonable for him to curl up on the floor wishing for his big brother to be there with him. Given the circumstances, he felt it was a perfectly reasonable course of action.

* * *

John's phone rang about halfway to Massachusetts. Dean couldn't hear what was being said on the other line, but his father didn't like it judging by the way he spat out responses or gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.

Or when he almost swerved into other cars during a particularly heated section of the conversation.

When he hung up, he gripped the phone so hard that Dean thought he would either snap it or throw it out of the window.

He did neither, and another half hour passed before he said what the call was about, but no way Dean or Caleb were going to risk asking beforehand if it brought out that much anger.

"It was the man we talked to in Massachusetts," John finally said. "He gave me the location of the auction there."

"Sam's not even going to be there. Not if they went through the effort of moving him somewhere else," Dean said.

"Probably not," John agreed. "But there will be people there who know where he was taken. This operation of theirs is more like a business. Someone had to order his move, and we're going to find out who did it."

John paused for a long minute, and Dean figured out where Sam inherited the look that said he was thinking over whether or not to tell Dean something. When John stayed silent, Dean knew that the decision came down under the 'Don't tell Dean' category. He hated it, but he wasn't about to question it. He still needed to tread carefully around his father.

He settled back into his seat and left well enough alone between him and John. He watched the ground roll by and wished that it would move faster.

Strange how, with this plan of theirs, he spent the rest of the car ride feeling both closer to and farther from Sam.

* * *

The back of the windowless van was becoming far too familiar to Sam, but the difference this time was that he was alone there. Jerry and Rich left the other boy behind in the motel room, as docile as ever. That left Sam concerned over what he should expect if he was the only kid involved. He hadn't even been a pain in the ass since they shaved his head.

They brought him back to the processing warehouse and dragged him inside once again. Unlike the day before, there was no line of children waiting to have their heads shaved. Instead, the inside was divided with cloth curtains that had numbered signs above them and Sam couldn't see what went on behind them, but he knew it couldn't be anything good.

Jerry and Rich led him into one of the little makeshift booths ('18166' was written on its sign) and sat him in the single chair occupying it. He wasn't surprised that it had restraints and that they were immediately fastened to keep him in place. He knew to expect it now.

None of them talked, though Sam couldn't have if he wanted to. The silence made it so that Sam could catch faint sounds of sobs muffled through the layers of curtains separating everyone. He felt like part of a show he didn't know he was participating in, waiting for the red curtain to split open and reveal his audience.

A man peeked his head in, nodded to himself, and stepped fully into the area, letting the curtain close shut again behind him. He was short and a little too well fed with round wire-rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. He licked his chubby lips, looking back and forth between Jerry and Rich. "Gentlemen," he said, "good to see you again. I was running a little late, but I hope you weren't waiting too long."

"You're a loyal customer, Williams," Jerry said. "We never mind waiting a bit for you. Glad you could make it at all. First one, actually."

"When you told me about him, I knew I had to make the trip earlier for the silent auction. You know they never sell the good ones at a regular auction. Just the run-of-the-mill kids."

 _Is that why the other boy was left at the motel?_

Sam wasn't sure if he liked that he was being sold at a silent auction (well, not completely silent, but it wasn't like he could correct them on that). He almost had privacy being separated from the other kids there, but when a buyer stepped in, it felt much more invasive. They could get too close.

Williams stepped closer and bent over to look at Sam. He brought a hand to Sam's chin and turned his head from side to side. His meaty thumbs moved up to pull at Sam's eyelids until they hurt from lost moisture. "Those eyes," he said. "Every parent wants their child to have pretty eyes. You know what they say about windows to the soul."

"You should've seen his hair before it was shaved," Jerry added.

 _And whose fault was it that my hair was shaved off?_

"Thick. Curly. Kind of a chocolate brown color," Jerry continued.

"Every young couple wants a kid with kaleidoscope eyes and thick, curly hair. They all want their perfect little angel, and this kid can give that to them. Well, as long as they offer me the right price."

Sam didn't understand Williams' logic. Buy him just to sell him to some random couple? How was that a feasible business plan?

"He _is_ fertile, isn't he?" Williams asked.

He finally took his eyes off of Sam, which allowed him to breathe a little easier not being under such intense scrutiny. Or at least he was able to breathe easier for a fraction of a second before the weight of Williams' words hit him.

 _Fertile?_

He knew what the word meant. He was fifteen, and may have looked a few years younger, but he wasn't an idiot by any stretch of the word (except for maybe ending up this deep in human trafficking, but that wasn't his fault, was it?).

"If you want to know, you can pay to have him tested," Jerry said. "But he's young and healthy. Shouldn't be any problems."

"If I'm paying an arm and a leg for the kid, I don't want to take chances."

"You know a doctor who'll perform the test with no questions asked?" Jerry asked.

Williams pursed his chubby lips together, but stayed silent.

"That's what I thought," Jerry said. "I can't get the police on my back anymore than you can. Imagine the shit storm you'd have to deal with if the public found out where those 'orphans' you sell for outrageous adoption fees come from. Suddenly, every couple questions if they have a specially bred baby and you're a man with a lot of people after your head on a silver platter. The kid is probably nice and normal, so is it worth the risk?"

"I could sell kids with his features for a high price, but I've had some bad luck lately," Williams said. "What about a trial run?"

"It'll cost you extra," Jerry said.

Williams took a long look at Sam, who wanted nothing more than to be spared the appraising stares like he was just meat.

"I'll think about it."

Williams left the little booth, and Sam prayed that someone else would buy him. Anyone else, because a future as some sort of breeder was one of the last things he wanted. He wished that he could help the kids forced into that fate, but he wouldn't even know where to start mending the pain caused by these human traffickers and their customers.

Sam still felt the phantom touch of Williams' hand on his jaw as it turned his head. He wanted to throw up, but his stomach held nothing to expel.

Something told him that his day was only beginning.

* * *

They were at a motel in Massachusetts by the time the sun set. Dean sat on one bed sharpening knives. John sat on the other cleaning the guns. It was the first night in a long time that John didn't spend drinking his mind away in the cheapest, strongest alcohol he could find.

In the morning, they'd head over to the auction. Not with the intent to buy anything ( _anyone_ ), or even with a hope that Sam would be there. They all knew that every odd said Sam was far away from there.

But the people who knew where Sam went would be there, and when Winchesters wanted answers, they got answers.

"Dean," John said.

Dean paused in sharpening one of his favorite silver knives and looked at his father. "Yes sir?"

John sighed. Dean wasn't sure if it was hidden behind anger and determination, but he couldn't find disappointment in his father's eyes this time.

"Things tomorrow might end in violence," he said. "I don't know if you should be there."

"What do you mean? Why shouldn't I be there?" Dean asked. "I know I fucked up big time, Dad. I really, really did. But I'm going to do whatever it takes to help get Sam back. If that means roughing up a few of the bastards who took him, well, I can't say that I haven't been dreaming of that."

"I'm not talking about just roughing them up, Dean. I know that you've taken down some of the strongest things out there, but these are humans. This isn't the kind of thing you're used to."

"You're wrong, Dad," Dean said. "The things that took Sammy aren't human."

* * *

Sam curled and uncurled his toes, then his fingers. It felt like hours passed since Williams left, but for all Sam knew, they might've. He wanted more than anything to stand up and stretch after days of being confined to small positions.

But the restraints of the chair held fast and limited his mobility to his hands, feet, and head.

He was given a few sips of water here and there, but never enough to sate his thirst.

Jerry and Rich talked sometimes, but it was mostly Jerry explaining things to Rich. He must have been new to this, and it made Sam wonder how anyone fell into becoming a human trafficker.

Since Williams left, other potential buyers had come and gone. Sam still felt the paths their hands traced across his skin, looking for features that suited the needs of their business. His price tag slowly rose and sat at thirty thousand, courtesy of the man who put his hands…

Sam refused to think about it. How it all felt clinical and dirty at the same time. How his face burned red in shame under the inspection of each new set of hands.

Then, two new men stepped within the red velvet bounds of Sam's little world, one after the other. They both wore suits, looking much more professional than the buyers who came before them.

Sam smelled their cologne immediately, each of them drowned in a different scent that choked Sam. Overpowering and artificial.

"This is him?" one asked. He had an accent, but managed to almost hide it completely.

The other man snorted. "You see any other boy here? I don't think Jerry is up to selling Rich just yet."

All four men laughed, Rich a bit nervously.

Sam couldn't remember what his own laugh sounded like anymore.

Jerry set a hand on Sam's shoulder, and it made Sam's skin crawl. Too many hands had been laid on him without his consent lately.

"This is him," Jerry confirmed. "Strong kid. Good fit for labor at one of your sites, Davies. On the other hand, he's got a lot of fight in him under the right circumstances. That might fit some of your clientele, wouldn't it, Liu?"

Davies and Liu shared a look of silent challenge, and Sam feared that this was it. None of the bidders before this have had the same spark in their eyes that Davies and Liu had. He was about to be sold and vanish just like every other kid missing from Massachusetts. There wouldn't even be a trail left for Dean to follow.

"His hair?" the man with the accent asked. Sam guessed he was Liu, since he looked nothing like a 'Davies'.

"Nice and thick. It'll regrow quick enough, if you want it long," Jerry said.

"Shaved heads sell poorly," Liu said. He shrugged. "Not a popular taste with my clients."

"Hair regrows," Rich added in, speaking for the first time to a potential buyer that day. "Mine takes only a couple of weeks before I have to take a razor to it. He'll have enough to satisfy by the time you get him there. A little longer, and it'll be right back to hanging in his face."

Davies stepped closer and ran his hand over Sam's arm, squeezing. "Some muscle on him," he commented.

"More muscle can be built," Jerry said.

"Pretty eyes," Liu commented, leaning closer to Sam's face. Close enough that Sam felt his breath. "A little pout."

"Williams has also taken an interest in the boy," Jerry said. "You know how overpriced adoptions of infants are. He could pay eighty thousand for the boy and make his money back with two kids from him."

"And waste him by keeping him hidden for breeding?" Liu asked. "Williams is a fool. Plenty of desperate people are willing to pay top dollar for a few hours with a kid like this."

"Rare to get one this young with some strength. He could do the work of two or three of my regular kids, and it would be nice to have one sturdy enough to last more than five years. Save me a lot of headaches and a lot of money," Davies said. He glanced back at Liu, then to Jerry. "How old is he?"

"Looks about thirteen or so."

 _Fifteen._

"And Williams is interested?"

"Sure is."

Davies asked, "You said that he has fight in him?"

"Not as much as he used to, I'm sure that the rest of it could be beaten out of him."

"I want him to have some fight," Liu said. "What's the current price?"

"Thirty thousand," Jerry said. "But that's without any bid from Williams, and you both know that Williams could pay top dollar for the kid if he really wanted him."

Liu and Davies started into a bidding war between each other. Sam didn't know how much humans sold for, so he wasn't sure if the amounts being thrown around were significant. They were certainly higher amounts of money than his family had ever had, considering there were days when he had been left with Dean where they weren't sure if they could afford another meal.

"You know, Liu," Davies said. "Maybe we could meet in the middle."

"Why would we?"

"I want the kid. You obviously want the kid. I have a site in Hong Kong that could use a little bit of muscle," Davies said. "We split the price. I get him during the week. You get the weekends."

"Branding?" Liu asked. "Yours or mine?"

Davies shrugged and looked at Sam. He pushed up the sleeves to reveal Sam's shoulders. "One on each shoulder," he said. "We've done it before."

"Not for a long time," Liu said.

"So, we're rekindling our old friendship."

Liu had a short laugh at that. "If you're serious, then you pay seventy percent, and I will take care of transportation."

"Seventy percent? No way, I'll do sixty-forty."

Liu shook his head. "If you get him for the week, and I only get him for weekends, then you pay seventy percent of his cost."

Jerry cleared his throat. "If you pay a hundred thousand, I won't even give Williams or anyone else a chance to counter bet. I'll close his auction right away," he said. "Remember the last time he screwed you, Davies?"

"Bastard can't stand letting me buy the kids we both take interest in. Thinks I'm wasting my purchases," Davies said. "I'll shell out seventy thousand to screw him over for once."

"Are you sure you could make your money back for it?" Liu asked. "I would be more than happy to pay and take full ownership of him. Having him in the back rooms every night would fetch me a lot more than just the weekends."

Sam hated the sound of that. If someone could just kill him before the deal goes through… He never wanted to feel a stranger's hands invading him again.

"I can make the money back off him," Davies said. "If not with labor, then there are a few organs that he doesn't need for survival."

Hands were shaken, and Sam given one last look from Liu and Davies ("Finish your section of processing by morning and have him ready to go."), before he was hauled away again. They didn't return to the motel at first, instead dragging him into a tattoo parlor through the back.

His feet on the tiled ground of the parlor felt like they were being cut by glass with how much debris littered the floor. He was shoved into another chair, a new chair, and restrained much tighter than at the silent auction. Even when he wasn't moving, the straps bit into his skin.

Once the tattoo artist starting filling the sensitive skin of his forearm—palm up—with ink, he understood why he was bound so tightly. He would be moving so much trying to escape the needles, that the tattoo would be completely ruined. He couldn't even make a sound in protest because of his collar.

The tattoo artist didn't even look at him, and he realized that he wasn't a person anymore. His humanity had been slowly drained from him since the second they grabbed him from his bed in the middle of the night until he was just an object sold for some quick cash.

By the time they returned to the motel, '18166' was tattooed on his forearm perpendicular to his wrist in neat print at the center of red, tender skin. His fate sealed.

* * *

Every fiber composing Dean wanted to storm into the auction guns blazing, but he knew enough to restrain himself. He also knew that he would just get in the way of John's plan. So until Caleb called him, he paced the sidewalk outside of the alley leading to the auction.

It was held on the outskirts of the town in some old, abandoned mental hospital. A place that no one would go to, or even pay attention to.

The sun burned down on him and he wanted to rip it out of the sky. Ask it how it could be so freaking bright when the world should be dark.

When his phone went off, he answered before the second ring. Caleb directed him through the building and told him to meet them in one of the storage rooms in the basement.

He weaved through the basement halls with practiced stealth. Some of them were in surprising condition for how worn-down the building appeared from the outside, but he assumed that was part of the idea to keep their operations hidden.

He peeked into the rooms with open doors, but never found anything in them. He heard distant cries and screams, but couldn't pinpoint where exactly each one came from when there were so many.

He paused when he heard loud voices yelling out numbers and peered into the room they came from.

He saw a man holding a girl still by her arms on a raised platform. She couldn't have been more than Sam's age, dressed only in underwear with her hair a limp mess over her face and her skin covered in a thin layer of dirt. Her hands were tied in front of her, but she wasn't resisting.

Dean swore that he could pick out some fresh bruises forming on her pale skin, and he wanted to charge in and kill (slowly eviscerate) every single pervert looking at her like that. He wanted to get her back to her family. To a place where she would be safe.

But Dean also knew that he couldn't draw attention to himself and ruin his family's chance at finding out where Sam was. As much as Sam would have wanted him to help the girl at the risk of staying lost, Dean wasn't making that trade. There was nothing that he would put in front of Sam.

Not even an innocent girl, dirty and afraid on a stage.

Before he tore his eyes away from the scene, he saw Sam up on that stage. Exposed and alone. Did he have to go through that? Did he think that they abandoned him? Did he still know that Dean was ready to tear apart the world to bring him back home?

Did he know how sorry Dean was that any of this happened at all?

It was a hard thing to do, but Dean tore himself away from the room and weaved the rest of the way to the secluded storage closet Caleb told him about. He heard sobs from the other side of the door and worried that John started without him.

He entered and shut the door behind him. John and Caleb had a man tied to a chair by his wrists and ankles. His knee was in a brace, crutches tossed into the corner.

"You went for the gimp?" Dean asked.

"Please help me," the man begged. He looked up at Dean. "They—"

He froze and turned so pale that his skin was almost translucent. "It's you."

"Do I know you?" Dean asked. He sifted through the assortment of faces from his past, but none matched that of the man in front of him.

"You were with that kid. At the arcade."

Dean couldn't stop his fist before it landed a heavy hit on the man's jaw. "You were the one watching us?" Dean demanded. "You took my brother!"

"I didn't!" he yelled. "I swear, I wasn't one of the ones who took him. I saw you at the arcade and then I didn't see him again until he was already here. Oh god, please don't hurt me."

John leaned close to the man and splayed the fingers of one of his restrained hands across the wooden armrest of the chair. He pulled out a knife and hovered it over the base of the man's index finger, kept still by Caleb.

"You see," he said. "That boy you helped take is my son. I don't care if you didn't directly do it, you were still involved. But it's great that you recognize who we're talking about because you took a piece of me. Now I'm going to take pieces of you until you tell me where he is."

"No. No, please. I don't know. I don't know!"

John brought down his knife.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So, Sam was finally sold at a silent auction. I know a lot of you were looking forward to his selling, so I hope I didn't disappoint. I imagined that high quality/attitude problem kids that would fit specific needs would be separated and sold at higher prices. With the silent auction set-up, it would let people be a little more able to inspect before they buy. I don't know how accurate prices would be, so I just kinda threw numbers out there.

Fun fact: Sam's number was chosen by an RNG that I programmed just for giving him a number. I didn't like the RNGs I found online.

Anyway, thank you to everyone who reviews, reads, follows, and favorites!

If you wouldn't mind, take a minute and leave a review before you go! I'd really appreciate it.


	8. Another World Away

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Language and some violence. A death. Human disgustingness.

* * *

"I swear," he said again. "I don't know where your son is. Jerry moved him after a couple of buyers suggested taking him somewhere else because of his behavioral issues—the kid fucked up my knee and beat me with a tray. He didn't say where they were going."

 _Sammy has behavioral issues?_ Dean was almost proud that his little brother gave them that hard of a time. That he had enough fight to leave this man on crutches even when he was trapped by them.

He also found great satisfaction in the fact that the man in the chair was now missing two fingers, blood draining out of the nubs left behind. His face was a mess of pain, snot, and tears (also a little swollen and bruised). There was a dark stain at the center of his jeans. The room reeked of blood and piss, but this man probably left children in rooms in worse conditions. Confused. Afraid.

It was the least of what he deserved for being a part of any of this. For being a part of Sam's disappearance.

"Then, where's Jerry?" John asked. His knife dripped blood on the man's hand as he hovered it over the next finger.

"I don't know." He sobbed between words. "He isn't back yet. He took Rich, your kid, and another kid and left. I swear that's all I know. That's all I know."

"Who's Rich?"

"The new guy. Wanted some quick cash so he didn't lose his house after he lost his job," he said. "But he ended up liking the job and didn't bother looking for something more legal."

John brought down the knife again and Dean worried that the man might pass out before they had all of the answers they wanted.

The man cried out again, more feral than human at this point. "I answered you!"

John nodded. "Yeah, but I didn't like your answer."

"It was the truth!"

John shrugged. "I don't have to like the truth."

"Okay. Okay," he said. He took a series of deep breaths before he spoke again. His entire body trembled. "Jerry, his number's in my phone. Take my phone. Track him. I don't care. He's not worth it. He's not fucking worth it."

"I appreciate it," John said.

He moved his knife from the man's hand to his throat. After a quick, clean cut, the man gargled out a last string of gibberish with panic in his eyes. Then, it was over and he slumped in the chair. Eyes open, but empty.

Caleb searched through every pocket he found on the man until he pulled out a cell phone. He went through the contacts. "Well, there's a Jerry," he said. "So at least part of it was true."

Dean thought that killing a human would feel different, but it felt like any other hunt. Just with the added emptiness of revenge. He looked at the man in the chair, the blood coating him. He hurt Sam, and John killed him.

He should have drawn it out. For Sam. For the girl on that stage. For all of them.

John wiped the blood from his blade.

"Do you think we should have asked him what he did to Sam?" Dean asked. "He had to come in contact with him if Sam messed up his knee that much and beat him with a tray."

"Maybe, but I don't think it's something you should have heard," John said.

"What do you mean by that?" Dean demanded. "If it's about Sam, I need to hear it."

John glared at him and Dean saw the disappointment return. "You haven't been able to think straight since I left both of you here, especially not with Sam gone. You hearing what happened won't do you any favors. We'll hear from Sam what happened to him once he find him, we don't need a stranger to tell us."

"What about the other kids?" Dean asked, defeated. "We could still help them."

"Dean, we can't," John said. "Not right now."

Dean opened his mouth in protest, but his words were halted when Caleb's hand landed on his shoulder with a shake of his head.

Dean looked at his father, and he could see the weight of his decision. Helping people was what they did, but they had a timeline to save one of their own.

"We'll come back," he said. "Once we get Sammy to safety, we'll hunt down the rest of the bastards involved in this. We won't be able to save all of the kids, but we'll save some from ever being taken."

They left the storage closet with the man's body still slumped in the chair. Dean wanted to salt and burn him and avoid having a vengeful spirit on their asses, but moving the body would draw too much attention and doing it in the room would draw even more attention if the fire couldn't be contained.

"How fast do you think you can track that number, Caleb?" Dean asked.

"Believe me, Dean," Caleb said. "I'll be tracking it as fast as I can. I want to see Sam safe just as much as you do."

Dean didn't think anyone could want to see Sam safe as much as he did, not even their father.

Not when Sam had been his responsibility, his charge, since November 2, 1983.

When did he forget how to do the most important job ever assigned to him?

* * *

Jerry and Rich took the other boy the night before. They were gone for hours before they came back, but the boy wasn't with them.

Sam never knew his name and never would, but his face would be there to haunt him for the rest of his life. Added to the list of people he couldn't save, himself among them.

In the morning, right as the sun rose, he was pulled from the motel and taken to a farmhouse.

Jerry herded him inside and cut the sleeves from his t-shirt while the man inside asked, "Which one?"

"Liu's on one shoulder. Davies' on the other."

The man's eyebrows raised and he browsed through a crate of branding irons, removing two of them. He set the ends of them into the orange flames of his fireplace. "It's been awhile since they've split a kid," he said. "What's the occasion?"

Sam found it difficult to keep his breathing even. They were going to brand him like an animal.

They were going to brand him _twice_. Give him another reminder that his body no longer belonged to him. First the tattoo of a number—his number—and now the brands of his _owners_.

It hurt to even think of that word. To think that he was just another person's property (two people, but minor details).

The man took the first branding iron out of the fire when the metal turned white-hot. He walked towards Sam with a grin while Jerry shoved a stick into his mouth.

"Bite down," he said.

Sam did, but the stick almost fell out of his mouth when the iron touched his shoulder, the pain blinding him until the world was white. He didn't know if he tried to scream, wouldn't have felt the shock collar go off if he had. Not with the sensation of his skin on fire.

The immediate wave of agony eased only slightly when the iron was pulled away (Sam swore that odd smell in the room was his burned skin). Before he had time to collect himself, the other iron was pulled out of the fire and pressed against his opposite shoulder.

His world faded from white to black when he body decided to grant him the mercy of unconsciousness to spare him from the pain.

* * *

"Nebraska," Caleb said. "Last call was made around Lincoln this morning."

"The drive there will take over twenty hours," John said. "Are you positive?"

Caleb shrugged. "Cell trackers are still pretty new, so there's no way to be one hundred percent positive, but I'm as certain as I can be. And believe me, I wish I could give you a concrete answer."

Dean sat on the motel bed with his duffle bag next to him. No use in doing anything else when they would be back on the road in no time. When he needed them to be back on the road and on their way to Sam.

"I guess we should get started," John said. "Long trip, and the only stops we're making are those absolutely necessary. We need to shave as much time off as possible."

 _To get there before it's too late,_ Dean added in his mind.

John had Caleb take the first driving shift (Dean assumed that he would not be in the rotation at all). They stopped at a Gas 'n Sip to fuel up, and Dean slipped some of Sam's favorite candy bars into his pockets. The kid would probably need something good when they found him.

Looking at his father asleep against the passenger side window, Dean couldn't remember the last time he had a decent rest. Maybe he should follow John's lead and recharge before they get to Nebraska so that he could be ready to face anything Sam needed him to.

But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was a bloodied motel room with no Sam to be found.

* * *

His shoulders still burned when he woke up. The doors at the back of the van were opened and Jerry dragged him out onto the ground.

Somehow, while he was out, Jerry drove to a private jet's airstrip. The people who bought Sam clearly bought other children considering that a line of them waiting to board the jet, all with their hands bound and in simple, dirty clothes.

None of them glanced at Sam, but he felt eyes on him. The numbers tattooed on his wrist and the brands on his shoulder felt like neon signs drawing attention to him, despite no one present acknowledging him.

He imagined that this would be the point where he's finally released from Jerry's custody to Liu and Davies, a belief which proved correct when Jerry handed over the remote for his collar—now labeled with '18166'—to one of the non-slaves present. Employee? Slave driver? Task master? He didn't know what to call them.

He watched Jerry leave and wanted to yell and curse at him. Tell him that while he drained the humanity from _children_ , he's the one who wasn't human.

But the collar tight around his neck prevented him from making a sound, so he could only glare and hope that dark intentions would be enough to convey his message silently.

He wished for Jerry to meet a slow, painful death. And soon.

They boarded the plane slowly, which Sam understood the reason behind once it was his turn. The seats were customized to keep all of the kids still. They had straps that criss-crossed over his torso.

The man who led him inside and to his seat strapped him in, but pulled them too tightly so that they dug into his chest every time it rose with a breath. Then came the ankle straps and wrist straps, as if he could move his arms with the way his shoulders burned with every attempt in a way that made it impossible without nearly passing out from the pain.

He ended up in between a girl who had to be a little younger than him and a boy who had to be the same age, maybe a year or two older.

The plane taking off and the turbulence in the air didn't feel much different from riding in the Impala with Dean driving, so he closed his eyes and pretended that's where he was. With Dean on the open road, following their dad's truck with the only worry being that they make it to the next hunt before more people died.

Simpler times.

That way, he could pretend that there wasn't really a little girl next to him sobbing and asking in choked off sentences for her mother. He could pretend that he wasn't trapped in a way that made it impossible for him to offer her words of comfort because his voice was stolen along with his humanity.

He could pretend that the only words of comfort that the boy on the other side of him could come up with to soothe them weren't "Hey, it might not be so bad".

He wanted to tell him that it wasn't just bad, it was awful. They were all branded like animals and marked with numbers like they were headed to a concentration camp. And in a way, they might be headed to something close enough just to be worked to death.

And how was Dean supposed to find him if he was being shipped to Hong Kong to do God knows what for Liu and Davies?

The only thing he could hope for in the cabin of slave children sobbing and crying out for lost families was that the plane would crash before they arrived in Hong Kong.

No survivors.

* * *

When they were an hour out of Lincoln, Caleb called the number they had for Jerry. Dean leaned close to try and listen, even if the conversation made him sick. They should never have been in a situation where he had to hear Caleb asking about buying a human being, a child, forced into slavery.

But if they could arrange a meeting with Jerry and interrogate him, he might be able to lead them to Sam, and Dean would do whatever it took to get back on that trail.

Caleb had more of a way with words than either Dean or John and managed to convince Jerry they needed to speak with him in person.

"Where?" Dean asked.

"Sounds like some motel on the outskirts of Lincoln," Caleb said. "We should be able to get there within forty-five minutes."

The sun was starting to rise again and Dean felt like too much time had passed. Every second since he stepped back into the motel room so long ago was a second too long.

He hadn't been able to get a decent stretch of sleep in the car ride either. Each time he fell asleep, his dreams were filled with horror shows created by his mind about what Sam might be going through when, if it hadn't been for Dean, Sam would be sitting in the truck right next to him. Probably annoying him or angsting, but he'd be safe.

They parked about a block from the motel. They formed their plan on the ride over. Caleb would go to meet Jerry in the parking lot, John and Dean would hide until they were able to sneak up behind him and knock him out.

They were so close to Sam. So close, and when Dean found him again, he wasn't going to let Sam out of his sight.

* * *

The flight was nightmare material (even without including the actual nightmares that plagued Sam whenever he managed to fall asleep). They weren't given food, so by the time they landed, Sam's stomach was so empty that it hurt.

He worried about dehydration with how little water he drank lately, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad to just dry up before he ended up worked to death. As much as he tried to hold on to the fleeting hope that there was a way out of this, the logical part of his mind insisted that this was it. He was going to be someone's property until his body just gave out on him.

Sam had never been on a plane before, but with this as his first experience, he wasn't keen on boarding another one (except for the off-chance that it would be to go back home).

He was officially in Hong Kong, or nearby in China. It would make the most sense, but he couldn't understand what the people around him who weren't slaves said. They spoke among themselves, but not in English (or Latin, he could have understood that at least).

They were herded off the plane in the same manner as they boarded. Being able to keep his arms mostly still as he walked helped, but being strapped in the plane's chair didn't do the burns any favors. He couldn't tell what the symbols on his flesh meant, outside of the fact that he belonged to someone as a sub-human.

When the ropes rubbed against his wrist the wrong way, the still sensitive skin from being tattooed flared in pain again.

There seemed to be a theme forming in his life: pain and misery. No choices. Forced into yet another life he didn't want.

All he wanted was to be normal. To have a real house and to be able to attend class at the same school for more than a couple of weeks at a time. He wanted to be able to join clubs, play sports, and find friends who didn't make him feel like an outsider. Find friends like Amy.

It felt like a lifetime passed since he last saw Amy. When his biggest concern was his family finding out he was hanging out with a kitsune that they would want to hunt without asking a question of if she was good or bad. Maybe if he ever saw them again, he could point out that just like humans could be worse than any supernatural creature, a supernatural creature could be as kind and caring as a human.

 _If_ he ever saw them again.

In the meantime, he was loaded into the back of another truck. This one resembled more of a moving truck, but not entirely. However, unlike in the van, the kids were packed into the back as tightly as they could fit. The closeness made the area uncomfortably hot even before the doors were closed.

After they packed as many of them into the truck as they could, the doors were closed. While he noticed it earlier, the smell of human bodily functions became suffocating with the doors closed. Bad enough to bring tears to his eyes. The smells of sickness and fear. In the darkness, he couldn't tell if it was due to the area never being cleaned (which was likely), or to the fact that sometimes when people were scared, they lost control of such functions (which was also likely). And there were a lot of scared kids packed together.

The grime of it all left a layer on his skin and he desperately wanted a shower to wash these past few weeks (maybe months? He lost track a long time ago) away completely.

But that wasn't about to happen, so he stayed curled so tightly in the back of a truck that it hurt and focused on not adding to the horrendous smell himself. He continuously swallowed down the bile trying to rise up his throat, but it always came back with each breath he took.

* * *

Dean hid between the dumpsters of the motel, keeping a close eye on Caleb leaning against John's truck in the parking lot. His father was hidden somewhere among the cars, waiting and watching just like Dean.

He supposed that Jerry would show up whenever he damn well pleased, but having to sit and hide made Dean antsy. He needed to move. He needed to do something. Finally allowed to help to an extent, he didn't want to waste it by simply hiding somewhere that wasn't the backseat of his father's truck.

Would Jerry have Sam with him? Was Sam in one of the rooms in the motel just a matter of yards away? Dean couldn't stop himself from glancing at each room's window that he could see in hopes of finding a clue to let him know Sam was there. It took all of his restraint to not go kicking down the door to every room in his hunt for Sam.

Finally, a windowless van pulled into the lot and parked, and Dean beyond doubt that this was Jerry.

But he didn't expect two men to step out of the van and approach Caleb.

He spotted John creeping through the lot, unseen and unheard by the men. Dean pulled his gun out from his waistband and followed his father's lead.

John got there first and knocked out one of the men, and the other one was about to run until he heard Dean cock his gun.

"Don't move," Dean ordered.

The man held his hands up in surrender. "Please don't hurt me," he begged. "I'll give you anything you want."

 _They break pretty easily when facing adults that they can't beat and scare into submission._

"You better hope that's true," John said. "I want back what you took from me."

Caleb nodded to the still conscious man. "I guess this is Rich. The man on the ground is Jerry, who I guess is kind of Rich's boss."

"What did I take?" Rich asked, ignoring Caleb's introductions of them. "What did I take?"

No one answered him. John held Rich's arms behind his back and forced him to lead them to his motel room while Caleb and Dean dragged Jerry along.

* * *

It was hours before the truck stopped. Hours trapped in a dark, cramped space that smelled far too human, and only smelled worse as some of the other kids added to the mess. Most of them stopped crying a long time ago, reduced to sniffles and hiccups.

Sam felt useless. He couldn't offer any encouragement or comfort. He had to sit and witness the suffering around him, unable to do anything. As much as he hated the traffickers for putting him in this situation, he hated himself for not being able to do more to escape. To fight it.

And now it was too late. The truck stopped and the kids were led off and into the backdoor of some building. Sam could faintly hear the music even out in the truck.

He saw signs towering over the building the kids were led into, neon and in a language he couldn't read. Chinese. The reality hit him a little hard than he expected it would. He was in another continent. It was all real and he was so far away from home that it hurt. This was it. This was really it.

When it was his turn, the man leading the kids off stopped.

"You stay," he said.

Sam was left in the back of the truck, alone, as it drove off again. He recalled something about handling transportation, but didn't realize that he was the only one in the truck being taken somewhere else.

When the truck stopped again, he realized that he wasn't as alone as he thought he was. A different truck was unloading kids at this building. A factory of some sort that looked like it was built in the time period of the Industrial Revolution.

They led him into a room filled with blankets laid on the ground, in sections large enough to fit one person each. The single pillow on each blanket was thin enough to be a decade old. It smelled better than the truck, which was a small reprieve, but it still smelled like exhaust and rust from the old machines filling the factory.

"You sleep here at night," one man said, his English accented. "From sunrise until night, you work. Disobey and be punished."

Sam laid on his back, unable to curl onto his side without hurting his shoulders.

If Hell was real, Sam thought he found it.

* * *

By the time Jerry returned to consciousness—with a nice lump on the back of his head—they had him tied to the rickety chair of his motel room's kitchenette. Rich they tied and left in the corner to rock back and forth mumbling prayers under his breath.

And still no Sam in the room or in their van.

Jerry groaned before he opened his eyes, slowly and with many blinks to clear away the blurred vision. Dean knew the drill after taking many knocks to the head himself.

While awake, Jerry seemed to have a permanent sneer. It could have been the result of being taken by surprise and waking up trapped, but maybe he would have a little taste of what he put children through.

Dean leaned against the wall, knowing that his dad wanted to take the lead on this one. Knowing that his dad needed this as a man of vengeance. He started a crusade to find and kill whatever killed Mary, and Dean was under no delusions that he was about to start a new crusade to find and kill anyone involved in taking and selling Sam.

It was easier to let his emotions out in fits of violence, and that was something Dean could understand.

Jerry thrashed in the chair, trying to free himself, but John Winchester knew how to tie some strong knots and none of them gave way

"What do you want from me?" Jerry asked. "You said you wanted to do business. Well, this isn't exactly how I do business!"

"Isn't it?" Caleb asked. "We've spent a lot of time trying to get into your trafficking circle, so we had a lot to learn about your process. I knew enough about how you do business to convince you to meet with us, so I don't think it would be far fetched for us to know that you treat the children you sell pretty similar to how we're treating you right now."

"If it's money you want, I'll give it to you," Jerry said. "Made over a hundred thousand yesterday, and it's yours. Just let me go."

"Begging won't help you," John said, "because it's not money I want. It's my son back."

Jerry looked between all of the men. He shifted as much as he could in the chair, leaving Dean glad that he was uncomfortable. Glad that he was nervous, confused, and scared. Because how many of those emotions did he make Sam feel? How many other emotions that Dean didn't list did Sam feel because of this man and his twisted friends?

John pulled out a photo of Sam—one of the many school pictures he was forced into having taken every time he transferred to somewhere new. It was one from last Spring, but Sam hadn't changed in appearance much since then. The biggest changes were an inch or two in height (which still left him to be towered over by the rest of the population) and shorter hair from losing a bet with Dean and having to shave it off.

Things that Dean regretted now because it made Sam so upset and it was supposed to be in good fun. But now Sam wasn't there and Dean's brain was replaying all of his greatest failures. He saw every little thing he did to hurt or upset Sam played on loop in his mind's eye.

He didn't like what he saw and promised that he wouldn't make bets like that with Sam again. He wouldn't force Sam into doing things that he knew would upset him again. He would be better, the way he should have been.

John showed Sam's picture to Jerry, and when his face turned snow white, Dean knew that they were going to finally get the lead they desperately needed.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Sam is still miserable and officially starting his time as a slave with Davies, but his time with at Liu's will come. At least Dean, John, and Caleb are getting closer. For those of you who like hurt-Sam, you'll want to stay tuned for the upcoming chapters.

Thank you to everyone who reviews, follows, favorites, and reads!

Leave me a review with your thoughts. I'd really appreciate it!


	9. Another Lead to Follow

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Torture and language.

 **Important Note:** I've raised the rating to M due to dark themes and events.

* * *

True to their words, Sam was awoken at sunrise. His shoulders still ached, but the restraints on his wrists were removed. He would have been useless with them on, but no matter the reason, he took what he could get.

The morning started with a cold shower in a shower pit. The only thing that dulled the humiliation was that he wasn't the only one there, and the water felt like it washed off at least a little bit of the grime that accumulated during the time since he'd been taken.

After the shower, they were herded to a cafeteria (using the term loosely) where he received a bowl of rice porridge with eggs and a cup of tea. It was a bland breakfast, but warm, better than a protein shake, and it filled his stomach. He almost fooled himself into thinking this might not be so bad, but they needed him alive and that meant getting food into him. Enough that he could live off of in the long term.

Not knowing what his job would be left him a bit anxious. He gathered that he was at some sort of textile factory, but the machines were archaic in a way that it seemed like Davies not upgrading them was his way of asking for accidents. From the bloodstains he saw on the floor around the machines, it seemed accidents were regular occurrences.

Sam was assigned to packing and moving the finished products (be it yarn, cloth, or clothing), moving the raw materials from one place to another, and helping with cleaning at the end of the day. It probably could have been worse, he thought, but he learned that his tasks had him exhausted quickly. The crates he was forced to move were large and heavy. There were too many of them and too few slaves to carry them.

He understood why Davies saw value in him. Most of the other kids were too young or in too poor of a shape to move anything half the weight of the crates.

The bonus was that it allowed him movement around the factory. He may have always been watched by the task masters, but they couldn't stop him from inspecting the place as he completed his tasks.

The hard part was seeing the emptiness on the faces of the other children there. The quiet despair as they worked without hope of escaping the horrible loop of routine their lives had become.

Sam wondered if his own eyes looked that empty. That hopeless.

He packed finished clothes into crates. While he worked with packing, he could watch some of the other kids work at the nearby machines, and Sam realized another reason why he hadn't been put on that duty: they were all smaller than him. When there was a jam, they could fit through the crevices to fix it.

But for some of the machines, if they fixed it and couldn't make it out in time… Sam prayed he would never have to witness that.

It was a habit of his that left his father frustrated on more than one occasion, and one he never realized he did until snapped out of it. He got lost in his thoughts.

It wasn't something he could control. It just happened.

However, he usually wasn't pulled from his thoughts by being thrown to the ground. In his surprise, he looked up to meet the furious eyes of one of the task masters.

One of his steel toe boots meet Sam's stomach before he had the chance to fully return his thoughts to the present and curl up to protect himself.

Sam bit his tongue to keep from making a sound and setting his collar off, then rolled into a ball to protect himself, facing his back to the task master. The steel toe boots crash against his back again and again, and he thought about how ugly the bruises would be. About how they would cover too much area.

He could only hope that there wouldn't be internal bleeding. None of them would care. The way Davies spoke, he'd sell Sam's organs and call it a good enough trade.

Just another number lost, scratched off a list and replaced with new meat.

There came a point where the kicks stopped, but the pain stayed. Sam was hauled back to his feet and shoved, stumbling, back to the crates.

"Get back to work," the task master said. "Slack again, and you'll be lashed."

He worked with the taste of blood in his mouth, but his body's protests slowed him. Without glancing, he knew the task master's eyes were on him. Waiting for him to slip again as an excuse to dole out another punishment. To tie him up and give him however many lashes.

His slower work seemed satisfactory enough, at least to the extent that it didn't warrant punishment.

But just because he wasn't being punished didn't mean the other kids weren't. Sometimes he heard them cry from distant parts of the factory. Sometimes they were close enough that he could hear them beg and plead for it to stop. He heard them loop apologies that fell on deaf ears, and he couldn't block it out or stop it from happening.

* * *

He made to through to dinner time uninterrupted and received another bowl of rice porridge—without eggs, he noticed—and another cup of tea. The routine was making itself clear quickly. Wake up. Cold shower. Porridge for breakfast. Work until dinner. More porridge. He assumed that working until bed time would round out the rest of the schedule.

The food was still bland and Sam wondered if he'd ever really taste something flavorful again. But it was food and served its purpose as sustenance.

They sat at tables, but no one talked to each other. Not really. Most sat quietly or sniffled. One of the sniffling children sat across from Sam.

The factory was filled with loud, crash-like noises at random intervals. When the machines acted up, mostly. Sam was waiting for the day when they would break down. A day which was probably decades overdue.

One of the crashes startled the already upset girl across from him, and she knocked her bowl of porridge to the ground by accident. It spilled across the floor, and within a minute the closest task master had her on her hands and knees with an old rag, sobbing and cleaning up the spill.

Sam knew for a fact that she would not be getting another bowl of porridge. They'd leave her to starve, whether it was out of frugality or in way of punishment.

He picked up his meal and walked around the table to her, setting his dinner at the spot where hers had been. She watched him with wide, grey eyes, still afraid. He couldn't assure her that he meant well with words. That he didn't need the porridge and would be fine missing a meal.

But he could help her up and guide her back to her seat. He nodded and smiled to let her know it was okay and took the rag from her hands. He fell to his own hands and knees and cleaned up the mess she made. He wasn't sure if it would cause more trouble for either of them, but he didn't have much reason to not take risks anymore.

His body ached, but he could clean up a little porridge without too many issues. When he was done and looked up, he found every set of eyes in the room focused on him.

The task master gripped his arm and heaved him up, dragging him through the factory.

"Interfere with punishments," he said, "and you'll be punished."

He wondered, if that were the case, why he waited until Sam finished cleaning the mess before dragging him away. His words were supposed to be a threat, but Sam had nothing left to lose. If it meant that girl was spared a little bit of misery, then so be it. They could do what they wanted.

* * *

Jerry's face paled at the sight of Sam's picture. "You have to be kidding me," he mumbled.

"So you know him?" John asked. "Where is he?"

"Gone," Jerry said. When he recovered from the initial shock, his fear gave way to amusement and he grinned. "Far, far away."

"Where is he?" John asked again, each word carefully enunciated.

Dean was sure that there had to be something wrong in Jerry's head to have this kind of sick pleasure out of angering his dad with a look of feral pride. He probably never came face-to-face with the family of any other kids. If he could put children through so much torment, why wouldn't he find pleasure in tormenting the families as well?

But if anyone could break a man down with force, it would be John Winchester on a mission for his son.

"Out of my hands," Jerry said. "Out of the continent by now, I'd bet."

"I'm not a man of patience," John said. "So here's your last chance to willingly tell me exactly where my son is before I have to force you to talk."

"Sorry, but you won't be finding him."

John nodded to himself, then looked at Dean. "I need to get some things from my truck," he said before he walked out of the motel room.

Jerry looked over at Dean. "What, you the kid's brother?"

"Yeah. I am."

"Dean," Caleb warned, "don't feed into him. Just keep quiet."

"Curious about what happened to your little brother?" Jerry asked.

"Not even a little bit."

"I can see you're lying."

Of course, he was lying. Sam had always been his greatest weakness. The only thing that could make him ignore the lifetime of training instilled in him. If he were honest with himself, a large portion of his identity relied on Sam's presence.

"Kid must be from Hell," Jerry said. "You have any idea how tough it was to drain the fight from him?"

"Shut up," Dean said.

His fists were clenched at his sides and ready to deck Jerry (begging to deck him), but his dad seemed to have a plan and he wouldn't be the one to mess with it.

"He hadn't said a word in days by the time we shipped him off," Jerry said.

That caught Dean's attention. Because Sam couldn't help not talking, even if he was just being a pain in the ass. He was someone who needed to be heard. He needed to express his thoughts. To not do that… To not do that was to not be Sam.

Dean wondered what the hell they could have done to make Sam that quiet, but the only image that came to his mind was Sam with blood pouring from his mouth, tongue cut out.

John walked back into the room with the weapons bag. Jerry turned to watch and asked, "Intimidation? Do you really think that's going to work?"

"Intimidation? You think that's what this is?" John asked. "I guess I wasn't clear enough. This is an interrogation."

Jerry's grin fell a bit. "You're not going to actually hurt me," he said.

"You hurt my son," John said.

"You can't be serious."

Caleb stepped over and sifted through the weapons bag. "Oh, he's serious," he said. "Looks like he's prepared to go all Spanish Inquisition on your ass. If only we had a rack for it, huh?"

Jerry's eyes darted between all of them. He licked his lips, and Dean swore he could see the sweat forming on his forehead. "Wait a minute. We don't need to be doing anything we're going to regret," he said.

Dean almost laughed at that, and saw the mild amusement in John's eyes.

"I won't regret it," John said. "Been dreaming of it, actually. How I'm going to rip apart the men who dared to take my son."

"You're bluffing," Jerry said. He didn't sound so certain anymore. So confident. Like he thought the world would never hurt him.

"He's not," Dean said. "He's really not."

John pulled pliers out of the bag and gripped the tip of one of Jerry's fingernails with it. "Do you still think I'm bluffing?"

"He's in Hong Kong," Jerry breathed. "God, please don't hurt me."

"Why is he in Hong Kong?"

"I sold him," Jerry said.

Caleb took a bandanna and held in it Jerry's mouth, gagged him with it so he wouldn't call too much attention. He nodded to John.

John jerked the pliers back, taking Jerry's fingernail with them.

Jerry cried out in muffled pain and tried to speak. Caleb removed the bandanna. "Hundred thousand. It was for a hundred thousand," Jerry added. "What else do you want from me?"

Like they had discussed it beforehand, and for all Dean knew they might have, Caleb knew exactly when to gag him with the bandanna and when to pull it away.

John tore off another fingernail. "You sold my son for a hundred thousand?"

Dean wanted to kill Jerry. He saw red and wanted to see Jerry covered in red. One hundred thousand. Someone bought Sam for one hundred thousand dollars and had him shipped off to fucking Hong Kong.

Sam was halfway across the world in _Asia_.

He thought they were finally close, that he would finally see Sam again, but Sam was farther away than ever before.

He wanted to gut Jerry, and then Rich. He wanted to rip out Jerry's intestines and gag him with them instead of a bandanna. He knew that his dad, no matter how calm he appeared, was filled with rage as well. He saw it in his father's movements. But his dad kept control, for now, because he still needed answers.

Dean wasn't sure if he could've done the same. If he could've kept himself from outright killing Jerry.

"It's yours, if you want it," Jerry said. "Just let me go. Don't hurt me anymore."

"You're certainly willing to hurt kids," Caleb said.

"I don't want your money," John said. "I want names and locations. Who bought my son and where is he right now?"

"I don't know where he is right now," Jerry said, his words coming out in a rush. "It's not my business anymore once he's sold."

John took a fingernail from the opposite hand. "Not good enough. Who has him?"

"I can't tell you that," Jerry said. "It's business. You understand, don't you?"

John put the pliers back in the weapons bag, and Jerry breathed a sigh of relief with a grin. "I knew you were a reasonable man," he said, hissing in the middle of his sentence when he moved his fingers.

Dean watched, knowing that his dad wasn't as reasonable as Jerry thought. Knowing that he wouldn't let Jerry off that easily if he were in charge either.

John pulled out a thin, black cloth and nodded to Caleb, who apparently knew where this was going.

Dean had a pretty good guess himself, and he couldn't wait for it.

* * *

Sam was left outside, chained to the building by his ankle, for the rest of the evening and through the night. Still, he didn't regret his actions. A scared, little girl got to have a meal and was spared punishment for an accident. To him, that was worth it.

He sat in the dark behind the factory and looked at the neon signs that he couldn't read. The smell of street food made its way to him, and his empty stomach grumbled (and that meant that the little girl's stomach wasn't grumbling, he reminded himself).

He watched cars drive on distant roads, free to go where they pleased. If he could find something to pick the lock of the metal cuff on his ankle, he might be able to share in that freedom.

But where could he even go from there? Who would help someone branded as a slave?

The night came with a chill, but it wasn't unbearable. He wondered what his dad and Dean were up to. If they figured out what happened to him, or if they were just tracking a bunch of dead ends. While he wished that he could contact them somehow and let them know that he was at least still alive, a part of him didn't want them to witness the state he'd been reduced to. He wasn't sure he could be the son or brother they remembered anymore.

He wasn't sure they would want to have him as a son or brother anymore. Logically, he knew they would never forsake him like that. That they were both prepared to tear the world apart for him.

At the same time, there was a lot he didn't know anymore. Good and evil meant everything and nothing. There were humans who needed to be hunted and supernatural creatures who deserved to live. His world used to revolve around communication and the ability to pass along information (research or recreational), but now his world was reduced to silence and he was beginning to forget what his own voice sounded like.

He curled around his knees, pulled to his chest, as the night chill started to bother him, but how could it not when his thoughts felt just as frigid?

For fifteen years, his family always made sure he had someplace warm to spend the night. It might not have been the best place, but it always did its job.

When he was hurt, he always woke up to painkillers and a glass of water waiting on the nightstand.

He never imagined that having those little things taken away would make him believe that maybe his family spoiled him. He used to think that he was being deprived of the basics of life: a stable home, steady attendance at school, nightmares that only show up in his sleep.

Now, his life didn't seem all that bad. Hunting wasn't his favorite thing to do, but it was better than being a slave. If he could chose, he'd go right back to the life of non-human monsters and never complain about it again.

In the end, it really wasn't that bad of a life he once lived (was he still even living?).

He looked at the numbers tattooed on the inside of his forearm. Was even even still Sam, or was he just this string of numbers forcibly marked onto his skin permanently?

The small shivers that ran through his body aggravated the fresh bruises on his back along with his still healing shoulders, once again making sleep nothing more than a distant dream that would never come.

* * *

They tilted Jerry's chair back against the table. Caleb held the cloth over his face and John found a basin, filled it with water, and poured it over his mouth.

With all of Jerry's coughing, hacking, and begging, they weren't getting many answers.

He felt useless standing there and staring (and he obviously wasn't going to be invited to help), so Dean sat on the bed next to where Rich was tied up and left on the floor. Caleb and John didn't need his help, not now, but maybe he could get Rich to tell him something about Sam that would give them a place to start in case Jerry died before he broke.

"So, anything to say?" Dean asked him. He pegged Rich as more of a follower from the start, and his submission and willingness to sit quietly in the corner to avoid a little pain reinforced that idea.

"Jerry knows more than I do," Rich said. He sounded small and afraid, like a child. "I wouldn't be able to tell you where your brother is. I don't know those specifics. We don't ask. After the deal is done, it's done. Please don't hurt me."

"I just want to know what happened to my brother," Dean said. He didn't add that Rich would be in a world of pain soon enough since none of them planned on leaving anyone involved in Sam's kidnapping alive. He didn't think Rich would be very willing to talk to him knowing that.

Having a conversation while his father waterboarded a man maybe ten feet away.

"Jerry told you what happened to him."

"He told me that you guys sold him," Dean admitted, "but not what _happened_ to him."

"You should be worried about what will happen to him. The things we do are nothing compared to what the buyers do."

"And you still sell kids to them."

"I needed the money."

"Most people don't turn to selling children— _children—_ into slavery when they need a quick buck," Dean said.

"You've never felt it," Rich said. He wouldn't meet Dean's eyes. "You don't know what it's like. To know that you hold so much power over someone else. To know that you practically hold their life in your hands."

"Don't any of you realize how sick and twisted that is?" Dean asked. "That's so far past normal. All of you should have been put down like the fucking animals you are."

Dean stood up and gestured to Jerry while he kept his eyes on Rich. "You and him _sold_ my little brother like a piece of meat! One hundred thousand. Is that one hundred thousand worth losing your lives over?" he asked, his voice raising with each word.

Rich met Dean's eyes. "Losing my life… You're going to kill us?" he asked.

"Why shouldn't I?" Dean asked. "Give me one good reason why I should overlook what you've done and let you live."

"We—we answered your questions," Rich said. "We told you that your brother is in Hong Kong. We can't tell you more than that."

Dean looked over to see his father leaned in close to Jerry, who seemed to be speaking, but his words were too quiet for Dean to hear. He looked back at Rich, who followed Dean's line of sight to Jerry and then back.

"Can't or won't?" Dean asked. "You wanna be waterboarded like your pal over there? I'm sure my dad would be glad to make that wish come true."

Rich appeared to be on the verge of passing out, but he weakly shook his head instead. "No. No, that's not necessary."

"Great. Then, how about telling me anything else that would be helpful in finding my brother?"

"The guys who bought him are named Davies and Liu," Rich said. "I'm too new to know them on a personal level, but I know that Davies has a textile company with a factory out in Hong Kong."

"And Liu?" Dean asked.

Rich swallowed, his eyes darted towards everything except Dean.

Which meant that whatever he said about Liu would be something he didn't want to hear. Forced labor at a textile company, Sam could handle that long enough for them to break him out. But if he had two 'owners' (bastards who thought he was their property), then were they both working the same gig? Probably not, since Rich referred to it as Davies' textile company.

"Liu runs nightclubs in Hong Kong," Rich finally said.

"Okay," Dean said. "And?"

"And they have back rooms. For patrons who want to spend a high price for some fun. Rough fun."

The pieces took only a second to snap together and form a full image in Dean's mind, but when they did, he almost threw up.

Sam needed an escape _now_. He needed one yesterday. He needed one weeks ago.

He had needed Dean to be there for him.

Dean nodded a few times and walked over to the weapons bag. John gave him a questioning look, but Dean shook his head and was relieved that John trusted him enough to let it drop at that.

If John heard their conversation, he would have agreed wholly with what Dean planned to do.

Dean pulled out the pliers his dad used earlier, but decided on grabbing one of the knives and a bandanna at the last minute as well. He went back to kneel in front of a terrified Rich who was trying to squirm away to no avail.

"I really don't like you, Rich," Dean said. He tied the bandanna tight around Rich's head, gagging him. "I hate your guts, actually. If it had just been forced labor, I could have managed to keep myself in check long enough. After all, there are worse things."

Dean pulled out one of Rich's fingernails without effort. "Worse things like being a damn nightclub backroom attraction," he said. (He wouldn't call it anything else. He wouldn't call it anything that implied the worst of what could happen there.)

Rich's breaths turned into ragged gasps.

"I really wish that I had the time to take you apart piece by piece," he said. He pulled out another nail. "I don't, but that doesn't mean I can't make you suffer in the short time we have together."

Dean took the knife and cut one of the legs of Rich's jeans at the knee, pulling off the excess material. "As much as I wish I could take my time and rip off all of your fingernails and toenails, well, I don't think that it will make you suffer as much in the same amount of time as this."

Dean held down Rich's leg and made a cut with the knife, not terribly deep, but deep enough. Then, he tilted the knife's blade and flayed off a strip of skin from Rich's leg. Blood welled up and spilled over onto the nearby skin. Tears streamed down Rich's face and he made small, muffled, high-pitched sounds in his pain.

"Do you think I'm a monster?" Dean demanded.

Rich nodded, squeezing his eyes shut.

"You're wrong," Dean said. He gripped the knife tight and the hilt dug into his palm, but that grip was the only thing keeping him from shoving the blade into Rich's throat. "You're the monster. It's you."

He flayed off another strip of skin from Rich's leg. And another. Until his dad's hand on his shoulder pulled him back from his murderous trance and Rich laid barely conscious on the ground with a leg missing half of its skin.

Dean looked over his shoulder at his dad, who nodded to him. "Jerry broke. Gave us the names of the companies, and Sam's number, but he really doesn't know anymore than that," he said. "It will take a little longer to find the factory and club with the specifics, but we have a place to start. Better clean this mess up so we can be on our way."

"What if we're too late?" Dean asked. "What if Sam is forced to…"

He couldn't finish that question, but he saw in John's eyes that he understood. That he shared his fears.

"Then, we just won't be late," he said.

Dean nodded, but they both knew that they were already too late. They had been too late since the second Sam disappeared, and they would never be able to make up for anything he had to go through between then and when they finally found him.

Everything he had to go through because of Dean's misjudgment.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I hope that the torture was satisfactory. Despite raising the rating, there are still some things that I don't want to write out too graphically due to personal preferences. Jerry tried to be cocky and thought that they wouldn't hurt him, but he thought wrong. He should be grateful though that it wasn't Dean torturing him, considering he flayed his friend out of anger.

In the meantime, Sam is still not having fun. But Liu hasn't gotten his hands on him yet either, so Dean, John, and Caleb still have a little bit of time.

Anyway, thank you to those who review, follow, favorite, and read. Please take a second to leave a review on your way out, they always make my day!


	10. Another Breaking Point

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Violence/abuse. Language.

* * *

Dean tossed his shovel onto the ground and stretched his arms over his head. Grave digging distracted him to an extent, but he couldn't close the curtains on the horror show in his mind. The idea of Sam trapped in the backroom of a seedy nightclub and at the mercy of strangers who weren't interested in mercy.

Sam was too innocent for that world, and Dean would have happily sold himself to that Liu bastard if it meant Sam would be spared. If anyone so much as touched Sam, Dean was going to castrate them.

He never imagined he'd be put in a situation where he hoped Sam was at a factory doing forced labor because it was the current best option.

John and Caleb hauled over Jerry and Rich, one after the other, and dropped them into the freshly dug hole. Neither were in fighting shape, but they were aware enough through their pain to be able to tell something was wrong.

Not that they could express those thoughts after John covered their mouths with duct tape before dragging them from the motel.

Caleb poured gasoline on them, the smell sharp and quick to fill the air. They tried to say something, but it was inaudible with the tape.

Maybe they would beg for their lives. Maybe they would beg for life because they have families who needed them. Children for whom they needed to provide. Maybe they begged for the chance to do that one thing they always swore they would, but just never had the time for.

But their pleas fell on deaf ears. Dean was certain that when it was the children who begged and plead, Jerry and Rich ignored them.

John took out the motel match book and lit it, tossing them into the hole atop Jerry and Rich. With the gasoline, they burst into flames quickly. Then the smell of gasoline was overpowered by that of burning flesh.

They let the bodies burn for awhile before filling in the new, unmarked grave.

He had never heard anything good about burning to death, but Dean still felt that it was too kind of a death for Jerry and Rich.

"So, Hong Kong," Caleb said Once the bodies were hidden under a healthy coating of dirt. "That's pretty far."

"Guess we better get moving," John said. "Gotta get Sammy back before they get the chance to go too far."

Dean kept silent, but he couldn't help wondering about the possibility that they already have gone too far with Sam. Rich told him about the environments Sam faced being brought to, but wasn't selling him already going too far?

He just wanted this nightmare to be over. He wanted Sam by his side, and he wouldn't be letting Sam out of sight for a long, long time once they found him.

* * *

The other slaves kept glancing at Sam throughout breakfast (he noticed how his hands trembled now when he held his spoon) and the rest of the day as he worked. He didn't see any malicious intent in their gazes—just wariness and curiosity for the most part—but it made him feel like he was back in the little booth set up in an abandoned building and being inspected by potential buyers like a particularly scrumptious piece of meat.

He felt the phantom hands return, ghosting over his skin and over places where a stranger's hands should never be. Turning his head for better views. For a sight of all angles that encompassed him.

The sudden intensity of the memories almost made him drop the crate, which he knew would end in punishment from one of the task masters.

His body made its protests well-known while he tried to work. The crates felt twice as heavy as they did yesterday, even if they were only half as full. Every step and action left him aching. His muscles started to spasm at random, and he wondered if the abuse his body went through combined with all of the shocking he was exposed to from his collar was going to leave lasting effects. Permanent damage.

Another reminder that this nightmare had been all too real.

He tried to keep his eyes from wandering to the numbers on his arm.

It didn't take long for Sam to start praying that the machines would break down. Catch on fire. Explode. Crumble. The details didn't matter to him this time, he just wanted this place leveled.

He wanted to go home, if they would take him back.

At the thought he shook his head, if he let the slavers get into his head that much, then it would be over for him. It would be a victory for them.

* * *

The next morning, his body still ached. He tried to scrub the numbers off of his arm under the cold spray of water, but they refused to even smudge. All he accomplished was rubbing his skin raw.

He found himself unintentionally mouthing his own name as he worked throughout the day, just to be sure that he didn't forget it. Just to be sure he didn't let a string of numbers completely steal away his identity.

But he hadn't heard his name spoken in so long, he couldn't quite remember what it sounded like anymore. He wished that he could test it out, taste the word on his tongue, but the collar around his neck—so close to choking him—deterred him.

As he packed finished product into crates, Sam heard a strange sound from one of the machines. A repetitive clank. He looked up and saw a piece of one of the machines was no longer fully attached and dangled, hitting against the parts nearby. He didn't know what most of the machines did. They were archaic and it wasn't his job. Besides, he didn't care that much to know what they did, not when everyone working them did so against their will.

It wasn't a surprise, the entire thing was more iron oxide than iron and a hazard for anyone near it.

Especially the kid told to maneuver through it and fix the problem.

The kid who was about to be crushed when it creaked and started tilting.

Sam rushed over to the boy, knocking over crates in his haste to be there before the machine came down. He gripped the boy's arm (he had the sense to huddle in a ball, but that sort of protective position wouldn't help him avoid being crushed) and pulled him out from underneath.

With all of the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he didn't even feel the now-constant aches of his battered body. He almost smiled at the fact that it took a near-death to give him a little bit of reprieve, but it didn't seem that funny.

And then he was being dragged away by one task master while the boy was dragged away by another. Sam wanted to yell that it wasn't his fault. The kid didn't break the machine. He didn't ask for it to almost collapse on him. Nothing he did warranted punishment.

Sam, on the other hand, understood why he was being punished. He knocked over a fair number of crates when he rushed to the boy, and since the task masters were heartless bastards, helping the boy escape being killed was enough reason for them to punish him.

Maybe this would be the thing that killed him and finally freed him from the Hell he could only wish wasn't real.

If only it could all just be a bad dream.

If only he could open his eyes and find himself back in a crummy motel room with Dean and a decorative style that left him nauseated. He would gladly put up with Dean turning the TV on a little too loud while Sam tried to do homework, and then reciting off the lines to the commercials they saw hundreds of times before in exaggerating impressions.

As it were, he would settle for opening his eyes and finding himself with his mother in an eternal peace.

* * *

Dean bounced his leg on the ball of his foot. The plastic seat of the airport chair numbed his ass, but he'd been sitting in it for hours now.

Forging three passports took too long.

Getting on a flight to Hong Kong took too long, all because the closest airport is so small that it only has a handful of international flights depart from it on a given day. In fact, they weren't even flying straight to Hong Kong. They had to find a ticket to an international airport in Chicago, from which they would finally be able to get on a flight to Hong Kong and to Sam.

Unfortunately, the first flight was still over an hour away.

He was going to crawl out of his skin by then. Not to mention the thought of being thirty thousand feet in the air didn't help.

That little fact didn't help at all.

"Flying isn't that bad," John said. He sat next to Dean and handed him a grease stained bag of food.

Dean was about to ask for a beer instead, but he remembered what happened the last time he decided to go out and have a drink. So he settled with sad, small burgers that tasted more like sand than food.

"I like the ground," Dean said. "At least if I crash on the open road, it doesn't mean that I'll be falling back to the earth like some freaking meteor."

"You can stay if you want."

Dean was shocked that his dad could even suggest that. He shook his head and glanced out of one of the many windows at the planes outside. "No," Dean said. "If Sammy is in Hong Kong, then I'm going to Hong Kong."

John nodded, like he knew that would be the answer all along. And Dean thought that he probably did know that, but just wanted to hear it said aloud.

"Then what?" Dean asked. "What are we doing once we get Sam? There's no way he's going to want to be thrown straight into a hunt. We have no idea what shape he'll be in or what's happened to him. What if Rich was right and they—"

John cut him off there with a raised hand. "I know, Dean. We'll figure that out once we have Sammy back. We can plan according to what will be best for him and go from there. Maybe head to Pastor Jim's for a break."

Pastor Jim's was always a place of safety for them, so Dean nodded his agreement for that idea. One thing they both knew Sam would be needing is the feeling of safety. Dean hoped that, despite Sam's recent teenage attitude, his presence still provided safety and comfort like it always did when Sam was Sammy-with-no-name-corrections.

He refused to believe that there would be damage done to Sam that Dean couldn't fix. This was his fault in the end, so he _needed_ to be able to fix it.

Maybe it would take weeks. Months. Hell, years could pass and Dean would still be doing his damnedest to patch Sam back together if he still needed it.

Sam certainly wouldn't be getting out of his sight again. Ever.

If only the airplane would freaking hurry up and get them on their way to Hong Kong.

* * *

When they dragged him outside, Sam prepared himself for another night spent in a dark chill broken only by neon signs and the rumble of cars. But instead of shackling him to the building again, they tied his hands with thick rope, and he feared that he was being shipped to Liu. That the weekend had come and it was time for the switch he heard them talk about.

That his arms were raised and tied to a pole behind the factory brought him some relief, because it meant he still had at least a little more time before being brought to the mercy of Liu. He saw the nightclub that Liu owned when the other slaves he bought were dropped off there, and he really didn't want to be on the inside there.

There were some things that Sam wasn't sure he would be able to go through without being irrevocably broken, and the threat of Liu's ownership looming over him promised to be among that list. Hell, these past weeks were filled with things that Sam wasn't sure he would ever be able to forget, granted that he escaped them in the first place.

For now, he could only go through the motions and ignore the non-physical wounds accumulating.

His felt the back of his shirt being cut away.

And just go through the motions.

He squeezed his eyes shut, with an idea of what was about to happen, but no certainty.

He heard it before he felt it. The crack of the whip and then its clash with the bared skin of his back. He cried out in surprise, but his shock collar went off and only added to his pain.

The whip collided with his back again, and he grit his teeth together to keep quiet.

He had no idea how many times they lashed him. No one told him, but he didn't expect them to really. He wasn't anything to them.

Even when his body became numb to the pain and he didn't feel much at all, he still heard the crack of the whip and felt the jolt as it struck. He felt warm blood coat his back and drip off, oozing out of his split flesh.

This was going to leave a hell of a mark (or series of marks), but he was glad that he wouldn't be able to see the scars since they were on his back.

He knew every human had a limit, that the physical body could only withstand so much abuse. He'd been in bad shape before, after hunts gone wrong. But then he always had Dean or his dad hovering over him, if only to assure themselves that he would pull through.

It ended eventually, but Sam wasn't sure how long it'd been since they started. The sun was dimmer, but that could just be his vision dimming from the blood loss and his body shutting down to protect him.

They cut his hands loose, but no one was there to prevent his collapse to the ground. Blurs in the shapes of humans moved around, pulled him away from the pole and strung up the kid he saved from the machine.

Sam watched him struggle, and tried to push himself to his feet in an attempt to help him, but his body wouldn't cooperate with him. He could barely raise himself a matter of inches, much less all the way up to his feet.

He couldn't focus his eyes on any one object, and the sound of the whip and the boy's screams sounded much farther away than they should have, but he didn't have enough left in him to process any of it anymore. He let his eyes slip closed, supposing that the bloodstains they trailed over moments ago belonged to him.

* * *

The plane creaked. The plane fucking _creaked_ , and neither his dad nor Caleb seemed to pay it any mind. They were thousands of feet in the air inside of a creaking hunk of metal. How was that not a reason to be freaking out?

John sighed and gave Dean a couple of pats on his shoulder. "You're fine, Dean," he said. "Planes are perfectly safe."

"Tell that to the people in the planes that have crashed," Dean said with his jaw clenched. "Oh wait, they're dead."

"Afraid of a little flying, Dean?" Caleb asked with a shit-eating grin.

"At least I've never slept with a ghoul," Dean said without missing a beat. "Doesn't that make you a necrophiliac, Caleb?"

Caleb paled, the grin wiped off his face. "You remember that?"

Dean half-laughed, half-snorted. "Of course, I do. I was the one who walked in on you. And you are _not_ a sight for sore eyes, dude."

When both Caleb and John smiled at him, he realized that Caleb was just trying to lighten his mood. To take his mind off of the flying and the darkness of their world as of late (and how could his world be light without Sam there?).

The short, light-heartened moment was over as quickly as it started, but it put the situation into better perspective for Dean. He was on a plane, sure, but he was there voluntarily with his dad and Caleb. He got to eat salted peanuts out of little blue packets and wash them down with mini cups of bubbly soda.

How different had Sam's flight been? Dean could guess that he didn't get any little refreshments from flight attendants.

And it should be Sam sitting where he was. Safe and warm and comfortable. Not on the other side of the world as a slave.

Dean should be the one alone in Hong Kong, paying for his own mistakes, but his dad was right. He was over the age gap the traffickers had wanted, but Sam fit into it (or at least looked like he did with his small stature).

The most he could do was crack his knuckles in anticipation of the moment where he could beat anyone involved in Sam's slavery until their blood coated his hands.

* * *

In Chicago, he was forced into a booth at one of the airport restaurants. Their next flight wouldn't be leaving for awhile, so John and Caleb saw it as the perfect time to force Dean into eating. Because no matter how much he felt he had to punish himself, that he didn't deserve to have a nice meal while Sam suffered, he knew that he needed to keep his strength up.

He needed to stay strong enough to put himself between Sam and the world.

The waitress tried to flirt with him unsuccessfully, then moved on to Caleb and found a little more success. On a normal day, Dean would have made fun of him for being the girl's back-up plan. But he didn't feel up to it knowing that he wouldn't be able to elbow Sam afterwards with a wink as Sam tried to roll his eyes and appear annoyed, even though he couldn't completely hide the smile forming.

"How long until boarding?" Dean asked. He ate half of the food on his plate, but even that felt like a chore. He never realized how difficult it would be to force himself to do the tasks that kept him alive when Sam wasn't there.

He never realized how he didn't truly appreciate Sam's presence when he had the chance. When he was bright and curious, qualities that Dean prayed remained intact throughout this mess. He couldn't lose Sam over this in any capacity. He couldn't be the reason Sam was lost.

"Still forty-five minutes," John said.

Dean groaned and leaned back. This was taking forever.

"There aren't any earlier flights?" he asked, for the fifth or sixth time.

"I got the earliest one I could," John said, infinitely patient with Dean (to Dean's amazement). "You know I did. It's just that not every plane departing is going to Hong Kong."

Dean nodded. He did know that. He had tried bargaining with the employee who sold them the tickets (without much success because "Sir, we can't schedule a new flight just for you") before John shooed him away.

"I want this to be over," Dean admitted.

John and Caleb both nodded, and Dean noticed that neither of them ate much more than he did.

Dean didn't look forward to boarding another plane. He would be happy to never board one again, because who actually enjoys being in a death trap that high in the air? But Sam needed him, and getting to Sam required an airplane.

So board a plane, he would.

* * *

Sam woke up on one of the thin blankets in one of the rooms used as a slave bedroom. He didn't remember moving there. In fact, he didn't remember much of the night or previous day at all.

He remembered the pain, which still assaulted him when he tried to move.

When his vision cleared, he noticed that he was alone in the room except for the other boy who'd been whipped. The task masters must know how useless they'll be after severe punishment. Even Sam knew that in their current states they would be more of a liability than a resource.

It was just a shame that his day off had to come at such a high price.

The day passed in a haze. He didn't get food. He barely got anything to drink (would have had nothing if the girl he gave his porridge to once hadn't brought him a drink at bedtime).

He heard the pained moans and muffled crying of the other boy, but it never fully registered in the haze of his mind that they felt the same pain. That Sam probably would have made the same sounds if he could. If he thought that verbalizing the pain would ease it.

He dreamt of Dean hovering over him when he woke up, like he had simply been asleep the whole time, eyes wide with worry and asking if he was alright.

For a few moments, he fooled himself into believing it was real.

But he was pulled back into cruel reality the next morning when he was expected to be back to work. The cold water on his back in the shower burned, and every movement threatened to reopen the barely-formed scabs.

He was given a new (new to him), non-shredded shirt and thrown back into the routine. If he thought that it was difficult working after he was simply kicked, he could have never prepared for the pure agony that coursed through his body now. He could barely lift anything asked of him. His walk became more of a shuffle.

He felt the eyes of all the nearby task masters focused on him. They started giving him orders when they passed by. Told him to move faster. Told him that he could carry more than that.

Work harder.

Don't stumble.

One more slip means more lashes.

He thought that more lashes might kill him, but it didn't seem like a bad thought.

A task master stumbled into him when he was moving a crate to be shipped and knocked him off balance and to the ground (he would swear that it was done on purpose).

It didn't matter that Sam did nothing wrong. He learned from his time in this new life that the only thing he needed to do wrong was exist, and he would be punished for it.

He would be punished for trying not to exist. He remembered Jerry and Rich forcing protein shakes down his throat, and he almost gagged from how real the memory was. How he could feel it like it was happening in that moment.

But then the pain of falling and the wounds on his back reopening twisted his stomach in a way that, when coupled with memories of force feedings, made him throw up half-digested rice porridge on the task master's shoes.

An arm with an iron grip pulled him to his feet and led him, half-staggering, through the factory. Sam knew what came next, and he also knew that it would be too much. His body couldn't handle any more abuse in its current state.

He looked around desperately, at the other slaves who did their best to not look like they were staring. At the other slaves who did their best to appear busy and docile so as to avoid punishment themselves. Every one of them looked the part of complete helplessness. Complete submission into a life that wasn't worth living, but somehow better than dying because of little hopes.

Everything about the scene made something in him snap. His head felt like it was splitting apart, and when he swiped his wrist under his nose, it came back bloody.

He fell back to his knees, but the task master didn't stop him. He didn't try to keep dragging Sam.

How odd.

Next came the heat. Unbearable heat surrounding him, and Sam came back to his senses enough to comprehend that a lot of commotion was going on around him. Screaming and yelling. Running footsteps. Machines crumbling apart in a mess of creaking and metal-on-metal screeches.

All he wanted was to curl into himself, to find a way to ease the pain in his head that nearly brought him to tears. The pain that was bad enough to distract from the pain of the wounds on his back reopening. When something fell and grazed his leg, but still sent it into a state made of searing torment, he knew that he couldn't stay huddled on the ground.

He opened his eyes, but all he saw was fire.

* * *

Dean knew the moment that the plane touched down. He felt the plane drop a bit as it settled on the ground, still going a speed faster than he could safely go in the Impala (which he never realized how much he missed until it was left in another continent).

Caleb managed to fall asleep on the plane, but John and Dean both stayed awake. Dean out of fear that he would close his eyes and open them to the plane falling out of the sky. John, however, spent the flight with a look of cold determination plastered on his face. The look that said he was planning on how to execute a hunt. The look of him considering every plan of action until he found the perfect one.

And God, did Dean hope that he concocted the perfect plan to get Sam back.

The pilot's voice came over the intercom and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Chek Lap Kok, Hong Kong."

Dean let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

They were finally back in the same country as Sam.

They were finally getting closer.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Whipping and fire everywhere, good luck Sam. At least his family + Caleb are in the same country now. That's a plus.

Anyway, thank you to everyone who reads, reviews, follows, and favorites. I'm glad that you're all enjoying the story so far. Please stop and take a minute to leave a review with your thoughts.

 **Special Announcement** **:** It seems there's a fair amount of fear about Sam being saved on time, but I'm not about to give out spoilers. Well, aside from the fact that there will be a sequel to this story that will deal with Sam's recovery. I'll give more details when the time comes, but for now rest easy in the fact that even when it's over, it won't really be over.


	11. Another Fading Hope

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** None? Maybe implications, but that's a bit of a stretch.

* * *

"First, it's a plane. Now, I have to get on a freaking _boat_?" Dean asked.

The air filled with saltwater from the sea was pleasant, reminding him of the handful of times they'd taken a hunt in California—hunts that Sam always loved just for the chance to go out and see the ocean. The chance to be warm and basked in sunlight.

John opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off before he could speak and said, "And no, staying behind is not an option. I haven't come this far just to back down now."

Their ride came into the docks, and Caleb looked sick at the sight of the ferry. Dean was secretly glad that he wasn't the only one not looking forward to the trip. Planes and boats. He just wanted Baby back.

"We couldn't have found a closer airport? One where we wouldn't need to go over water?" Dean asked.

John shrugged, completely unfazed by the idea of taking a ferry. "It's where the first flight to Hong Kong we could get on was going. We would have had to wait a lot longer for a flight from Chicago. Beggars and choosers, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah."

"You think they took Sam on a ferry?" Dean asked, not quite certain about why he was curious in the first place. Someone would have noticed if a boat had human slaves on it and reported it, wouldn't they? They wouldn't have been able to stuff a bunch of kids below deck _without_ anyone noticing and realizing that something wasn't right with the scene.

John shrugged. "I doubt it. I doubt that they came to the same airport as us either. Too big. Too many people. Too many witnesses."

"I guess. I just—God, I don't get how they can make kids disappear so completely like this."

"I've seen a lot of evil," John said, "but nothing more-so than humans. They don't have excuses for tormenting others. They rationalize it, sure, but they're so twisted that their actions make sense to them."

"It's why I didn't want you poking around at this, Dean," he added softly.

He didn't sound angry or disappointed this time. Just sad.

Dean wondered if that was worse. Things had to be bad for his strong father—the one he used to think of as invincible—to sound that broken. That lost. Was John hiding something from him again in an attempt to protect him?

That worked well last time.

"You have no idea how much I wish I could change it," Dean said. "To go back and make it so that this never happened. To make it so that I stayed with Sam instead of leaving him alone. I should have known better. I should have _known_. And I should have been there to protect him. I should have kept him _safe._ "

Because both Sam and their dad telling him that the case of the missing children wasn't their kind of thing hadn't been enough to convince him to stay out of it. Why did he have to be so full of himself at that time? Why did he have to play hero? Why couldn't he have seen it in the way Sam did?

There were a lot of questions about his actions that he couldn't answer. All he knew was that he just wanted to help.

"I know, Dean," John said. "I wish that I told you the whole story from the get-go. But I didn't tell you. And you didn't stay with Sam. There's enough blame for the both of us."

Even if his dad said that and was trying to comfort him, Dean felt most of the blame falling squarely on his shoulders for failing to do the one job that had always been the most important to him.

Watch out for Sammy.

He wouldn't have blamed John for lashing out at him physically after finding out the cost of Dean's mistakes, but he hadn't. He'd been angry, sure, and he made Dean stick with him. Kept him out of the loop. But he still showed that he cared with little actions. Making sure he took care of himself.

Dean was the reason that John's younger son was sold into slavery, and John never once raised his hand to strike Dean. He just continued to watch out for him. He worked on getting one son back while ensuring that he didn't lose the other.

He wouldn't have blamed Sam for hating him. For losing that unconditional trust he had in Dean as a child. He could have lost that hero worship and the semi-childish notion that his brother might have _actually_ been some sort of superhero who would always be there to rescue him if he needed it. But he hadn't lost any of those. When Sam had the chance to make one phone call in the middle of a living nightmare, he called Dean. Despite all of his faults, Sam still trusted him enough to help him. Sam still wanted him to be a hero.

Sometimes he felt like the world owed him something, but now he thought that maybe _he_ owed the world something for giving him his Dad and Sam. For letting him have their love, despite the fact that he didn't deserve it.

* * *

The smoke filled his lungs quickly, and when he started coughing, he found it near impossible to stop. Sam wondered if this might be the end for him. No matter how much effort he put into trying to stagger his way out of the factory, he couldn't see where he was going with everything swallowed in flames.

It didn't help that his head still felt like it was on the verge of splitting apart, the wounds on his back had to be reopened (he felt blood dripping from them again and tracing patterns across his skin), and the piece of burning debris that grazed his leg left it bloodied and burnt and unable to support much of his weight.

He couldn't make it outside in his state. He thought of Dean and his dad, chasing down a corpse without knowing it. Without knowing that Sam died via baptism by fire.

Just like his mom.

But a pair of arms (not particularly strong, but Sam was small anyway and likely smaller with how little he'd had to eat lately) heaved him up and dragged him along through the building. Sam spotted a tattoo on the inside of his arm. One that trailed halfway up his forearm and made of neat, little numbers. 14710. Another slave.

He was a little older, but Sam noticed that some of the slaves at the factory were. If they could still do the job as they grew older, he supposed they just stayed because they had nowhere else to go. They stayed because they had no choice and had yet to be worked to death.

"Saw you help that girl at dinner," he said, his voice raspy from either the smoke or disuse. "Gave up your own meal."

Sam couldn't remember ever hearing any of the other slaves speak before. He thought that their collars were all like his own. Ready to shock them at the slightest sound.

"I've been here for years, and never saw anyone take someone else's punishment," he continued. "Then, you pulled the boy out from that machine, saved his life, and then punished again. I guess it's your turn to be helped."

Sam shook his head, but 14710 either didn't notice, or Sam didn't move it enough for it to be noticed.

He didn't want to be saved from the fire. The flames gave him an odd sense of belonging. The strange notion that he needed to stay among them. Besides, what was there for him to go to except back into slavery? He didn't want to be shipped to the next closest factory to work while he waited for this one to be rebuilt.

He would rather be left in the flames.

Instead, 14710 weaved him through the burning factory to the lot behind it. Sam saw the dried bloodstains still on the ground from his whipping.

The other slaves who made it out stood in a crowd, corralled by the task masters. Not all of them were lucky enough to get out, Sam passed the bodies on the ground. The ones that weren't going to be getting up again. They found their freedom, but it meant death.

When one of the task masters talked on a cell phone in English and explained the situation, Sam knew that Davies must be on his way over. His property had just been destroyed, and Sam couldn't shake the feeling that he was somehow the catalyst.

Whatever he felt snap in his head was far from natural.

14710 didn't seem to mind keeping him upright. He would have been on the ground with the help. He struggled to keep up with the work during the morning with all of the injuries his body was trying to heal, and now there were only more from the fire and collapsing building.

Maybe he should have been thankful that 14710 saved his life, but it should have been Dean there holding him up when he was too weak to do it himself.

But Dean wasn't there, and he ached. Physically, and in a way that wasn't physical no matter how real it felt. It might have been the exhaustion taking over his mind, but he couldn't help thinking that he wished 14710 had left him behind.

After all, what did he have to look forward to in the life of a slave?

* * *

The ferry ride wasn't as bad as Dean thought it would be, and it was definitely better than the airplane (especially when he got to watch Caleb throw up over the side into the water).

The rock of the boat on the water was actually almost soothing, like being cradled. But guilt rose within him again when he remembered that Sam wasn't there to enjoy it with him. That Sam was suffering somewhere while Dean was comfortable and safe.

That it was Dean's fault that Sam was suffering.

Even though he didn't show it anymore, Dean suspected that this fact was still burned into his father's brain. No matter how disappointed John was in him, no one could punish Dean more than he was already punishing himself.

He just hoped that it would be over soon and they'd have Sam with them. He longed for the chance to make things right and fix his mistakes by fixing Sam, no matter the shape in which they found him.

"So, now what?" Dean asked. As peaceful as the ferry ride had been, they had work to do.

"Both Davies and Liu own more than one location with the names that Jerry gave us. I guess we start with the closest ones and work our way through them," John said. "It's going to be impossible to guess which one Sam could be at, especially since two people have an equal chance of having him in their control."

"God, I hope it's Davies," Dean admitted. "It's horrible, I know, but it's the best of two bad scenarios."

John looked over his shoulder at Dean, but didn't respond. Not that he needed to. Dean saw the same wishes hidden in John's eyes. They needed to hope that Sam was still working at a factory because it was the only hope they had to latch onto.

* * *

Sam's memories beyond entering the lot behind the factory were hazy and jumbled into an incoherent mess.

He had been on a truck with other slaves. He swore that a hand had been running over his head at some point during the trip, trying to soothe him by petting him. The way Dean did sometimes. But it wasn't Dean. The hand was too small and not rough enough.

They let him lean against them without complaint, and he wondered if they pitied him or, like 14710, saw him help other slaves and helped him out in return in the only ways they could. It was a small kindness, but so long had passed since he last received any kindness that it left him a little uncomfortable. Embarrassed, almost.

He really hadn't done much to deserve it.

Then, he was laying in a room that looked more like an office than the slave bedrooms he'd grown accustomed to. The plastic leaves of an artificial plant loomed over him.

He couldn't keep his eyes open long enough to observe more than the plant, but he listened to someone speaking. Someone who sounded exactly like…

Davies.

"He's been nothing but trouble for me. Do you have any idea how much he's cost me so far, Liu?" he asked.

A pause.

Davies sighed. "How long will it take you to get here?"

"Fine, but if you're even an hour late I won't care about your protests. I'm selling one of the little bastard's kidneys, and anything else they'll take."

Sam knew that those words should have made him feel something, but he didn't. Not beyond numbing resignation and the lingering wish for fire to envelope him again. How natural it felt to be surrounded by the intense heat. The odd peace knowing that he would go the same way his mother had. That he would meet her and really get to know her in a way that he couldn't while Dean and John refused to talk about her.

Instead, he found himself swallowed in cold darkness.

* * *

Seeing the inside of the factory nearly made him sick. What made it worse was seeing the conditions that the kids were forced to live and work in, and to know that he couldn't help them if he wanted to help Sam.

It was John's plan, and as much as Dean wanted to blame him for not coming up with something that would save all of the kids held captive there, he understood why they couldn't. He _did_. He just hated seeing them and feeling the misery that rolled off of them. The silent acceptance in their eyes was worse still.

Yet not as bad as the thought that Sam was somewhere feeling the same way.

Dean wondered, not for the first time, if Sam felt abandoned by his family. He got through to Dean on a payphone in what felt like another life. Dean promised he would be there to pick him up.

He _promised_.

And then he never showed up and Sam was gone. He never showed up and Sam was shipped to the other side of the world.

He tried to keep the thoughts at bay for now and soundlessly moved through the factory to the location his dad specified they would group at. He hoped that John or Caleb had managed to draw out and subdue a task master, because Dean didn't get the chance. Not with the open areas he'd ended up assigned to scout out. Not with the sheer number of task masters in those areas watching the slaves like hawks, just waiting to dole out punishment.

Had they punished Sam?

Dean shook the thoughts off again. He found John and Caleb in a room filled with threadbare blankets lined up and flat pillows on top of them. Employee housing, he assumed.

Had Sam—

He focused on the man tied and gagged in the center of the room instead of on the possibilities that his mind was so helpfully spitting out at him.

Caleb held a gun to the man's head and cocked it. "We're gonna remove the gag, but if you scream or raise your voice to a level louder than we like, I'll shoot," he said. "Understand?"

The man nodded, his wide-eyed, frightened gaze alternating between the three of them.

John removed the gag and asked, "18166, does that number mean anything to you?"

Sam's number.

"No. No, I swear. None of the slaves here have that number," he said.

Dean had been pleasantly surprised to find that so many people in Hong Kong spoke English. Out of all of the barriers that could try keeping them from Sam, that was the one that he didn't have any idea of how to overcome.

Luckily, Caleb was good for research sometimes and informed Dean that English is one of the official languages of Hong Kong.

"Can you find out where a slave with that number was sent?" John asked.

The man shook his head. "You'd have to talk to Davies about that. He takes care of all slave movements. We just follow orders," he said. "That's it. It's just a job."

"Where is Davies?"

Dean was scared of the answer. What if Davies was in America and they wasted their time coming all the way to Hong Kong? What if Jerry and Rich lied about where Sam was?

"I don't know," he said. "He might be in Hong Kong at one of his other factories, he usually is when new slaves arrive to make sure everything goes smoothly, but I haven't seen him. He could be back in America by now."

"Can you find out with certainty where he is?" John asked.

The man shook his head. "No. I don't deal with him. Not really."

"Find us somebody who does," Caleb said. He pulled the gun away from the man's head. "But I swear to God, if you tell anyone we're here or try to rat us out, there will be a bullet in your skull and in the skulls of everyone you love."

Once the ties were removed from the man, with his agreement to the terms that he would not be revealing their presence, he rushed from the room.

"Little harsh, Caleb," Dean said, but the light-heartened teasing he meant to say it with died out before the words left his tongue.

Caleb shrugged. "Desperate times."

It was all too real. Seeing the factory and the kids there. The collars around their necks like they were animals. Dean was certain that they even had brands marring their skin.

It was too real that Sam could be in the same conditions at that moment. Maybe he even had a collar to match the rest of them and a brand marking him.

Maybe it was all a lot worse than Dean could have ever imagined.

* * *

Sam was in the same office when he woke up again. Only instead of a plant hovering over him, Davies sat in a chair nearby and stared down at him.

He noticed Sam's wakefulness before Sam could close his eyes and pretend that he was still asleep.

He didn't say anything, just stared. Silently assessing Sam. Looking for something, but Sam didn't know what. If it was a search for life-threatening injuries, Sam was pretty sure he didn't have any. He was banged up, no doubt, but not quite to the point of dying.

With his vague memories of listening to Davies say how much trouble he'd been, he doubted that Davies' would care much if he bled out on the floor of his office.

It'd give him the chance to harvest more organs without worrying about keeping his investment alive and able to work.

"What are you?" Davies asked, more to himself than to Sam.

What, not who. He still wasn't human, he reminded himself. He was uncertain if he had ever been human. He couldn't remember what it felt like anymore.

It was the first time he'd been directly addressed without being ordered around in a long time, but if Davies wanted Sam to answer, he would have deactivated the collar. Turned it off of automatic. But even if he had, Sam wasn't sure he had any words left to speak.

"One of my task masters is horrified of you. He says you're some sort of vengeful spirit come to punish us. He quit," Davies said. "He said the fire spread from you, but the fire department wrote it off as an electrical fire from old wiring. That it was just waiting to happen."

Knowing that his fears were shared by someone else brought relief and dread. He was pretty sure that he wasn't any sort of vengeful spirit, unless he died without realizing it between being snatched from his bed and now. But he was also pretty sure that the fire _had_ spread from him. He felt something snap in his head, something unnatural. Then, being in the fire felt so natural. It felt right.

His mom died in a fire. His life began with fire, shouldn't it end that way too?

Maybe the pain and blood loss from the past few days was just messing with him. That the fire department was right and it was just an ordinary electrical fire in a building overdue for one.

"I can't wait to take what I need from you and be done with it. Leave your gutted body on the side of the road. Your organs are the only good things left about you."

Try as he might, he couldn't start another fire in that little office. As much as he wanted Davies to burn, he stayed perfectly unharmed.

Davies continued to stare at him, like he was trying to solve a puzzle but some of the pieces were missing, until the door opened.

Sam couldn't turn his head far enough to see who entered, but he knew the voice when he heard it.

"Not even a second late. I suppose you'll have to hold off on your hasty organ harvesting."

Liu.

* * *

The task master returned about an hour later. Dean figured that he would make a run for it, but was glad when he returned. He just wanted answers. He wanted to know where Sam was.

The task master shut the door behind them, closing the four of them within the privacy of a makeshift bedroom.

"I tell you, I get to leave?" he asked. "Uninjured?"

They all nodded. Dean begrudgingly, but he reminded himself that this man hadn't come across Sam. That he hadn't hurt the single most important person in his life.

"It isn't certain, but Davies might be headed to the North Factory. There are a lot of rumors that something happened there. Something bad enough to draw him over to deal with it."

"Write down the directions, and then this never happened. We never met you. You never met us," John said.

The task master was enthusiastic to agree to the conditions, wrote down the directions, and left in a rush. Left before anyone changed their mind.

"I guess we better get moving," Dean said. "Shouldn't take that long, right? We could have Sam back by tonight, couldn't we?"

"I don't know, Dean," John said.

John had a guarded optimism about him, and Caleb seemed to as well. But they were all hunters. They knew that anything could happen. Anything could throw them off the trail and put them back at square one at any second.

And Dean knew he shouldn't be getting his hopes up that it would by that easy, but they were so close. They were _so_ close to Sam, that he might get to see him again before nightfall.

And he would never let him out of sight again.

* * *

Liu stepped into his line of sight, looming next to Davies in a suit perfectly tailored and sharply cut.

"He isn't worth it," Davies said. "If I keep him around, he's just going to keep costing me more and more."

"I'll take him," Liu said simply. "But I need him to be fit, not recovering from a kidney removal."

Liu threw a glare at Davies, but Davies didn't bother to glance up and see it.

"Seventy thousand dollars, Liu. Plus whatever he's cost me in product and now my factory is in shambles. And it all happened after _he_ arrived there," Davies said. "That's a lot of money he's cost me, and I need it back."

"I'll cover the costs," Liu said. "You wanted to keep him from Williams, and you did. I'll pay for full ownership of him, and you get your money back and him out of your hair. It's a good deal."

"You'll pay for the reconstruction of my factory?" Davies asked. " _Plus_ the seventy thousand I originally paid for him?"

Sam hoped that Liu would say no. That Liu would change his mind because the price was too high just for him. But to Sam's horror, Liu nodded. He nodded like Davies' words were the most sensible he'd ever heard.

"I will."

"Then, he's yours. Completely. Get him out of my hair by tonight," Davies said.

Liu nodded and shifted towards the door, when Davies stopped him.

"Why are you willing to pay so much for a single, troublesome slave?" Davies asked.

"With the stories your task masters tell about him, he'll be worth every cent I pay for him. Worth tenfold, actually. He might not fit into your business, but he's perfect for mine."

Davies just nodded.

Sam felt like ice filled his organs, chipping off and running through his veins. Images of shadowy nightclubs reeking of alcohol, cheap perfumes and colognes, cigarette smoke, and sweat flashed through his mind. Clips of electronic music too loud to hear anything over. Hidden backrooms with drowned out screams and sobs masking the quieter moans.

Himself, among all of it.

Liu grinned down at him, unsettling and dark (more of a leer than a grin), before he left the room.

Sam couldn't breath. His lungs refused to allow air in.

What he feared the most just became his reality.

He was Liu's.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Oh my, so much going on. Liu finally has what he wants, and it's Sam's greatest nightmare. Dean, John, and Caleb are on an ever shortening timeline.

And you'll have to stay tuned to find out what happens next!

Thank you to everyone who reads, follows, favorites, and especially reviews. Please take a moment before you go to let me know your thoughts!


	12. Another Endless Chase

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** None really in this chapter.

* * *

Liu had to bring a task master in to carry Sam out to the truck on his back. As if it wasn't bad enough that he was Liu's now. As if it wasn't bad enough that he couldn't walk on his own with the number of injuries he sustained during his time as Davies'.

As if none of that was bad enough, he was being carried piggy-back by a strange man because Liu didn't want the lashing wounds on his back reopened. It wasn't as painful as trying to walk, but he was still jostled on the man's back, which sent tiny waves of pain through his injuries.

Sam couldn't fool himself into believing that this new way of treating him was done out of concern for his well-being. No, Liu's concern was only that he could _perform_ when asked to (and Sam still didn't want to let himself think too much about what that entailed). It wasn't going to be like life at the factory.

It was going to be much worse, but Liu needed to keep him healthier than Davies had needed. Liu needed him in better shape. Clean. Rested. Spirited.

Sam felt none of those at the moment.

The task master wrapped him in a blanket earlier. While being carried on his back, he looked like any child (or drunk), half-asleep and being carried because they were minutes away from passing out.

Anything that said otherwise had been hidden within folds of cloth, and Sam hated to admit that this was the warmest he'd felt in a long time (not including during the fire).

How many time had Dean had to carry him like this, and never once complained about it? When was the last time he'd been that close to his brother?

He supposed that as he grew older, the rift between him and Dean grew as well. Dean still proved time and again that he wanted what he thought was the best for Sam, but he never proved that he truly understood him.

Not that it matter much anymore, Sam thought. It'd been so long, Dean probably wasn't coming anymore. He might have tried, but Sam knew it was over when he was put on a plane headed across the world. Knew it was especially over earlier that very day, when Liu bought full ownership of him.

He wasn't sure he _wanted_ Dean to find him anymore. Not if it meant he'd see him in one of Liu's clubs. Not like _that_.

There was a car parked nearby, the paint job dark and shiny. It reminded him of the black of the Impala, but it would never be a match for the car that was more of a home than anything else Sam ever set foot in.

Liu disappeared on the other side of the car, and the task master laid Sam across the backseat.

He almost didn't notice that his head was pillowed by Liu's leg, not until Liu's hand fell onto the top of his head and ran over the semi-longer hair just starting to grow back.

Had the hands belonged to someone else, the gesture might have been comforting. Loving. As it were, Liu's touch made his skin crawl and left him nauseated.

If he had anything in his stomach, he might have thrown up. The only good part would have been throwing up on Liu's lap and staining the suit that he clearly took great care of.

The car set into motion and the driver spoke, but Sam didn't understand the words.

"No," Liu said. "Go to the one in Chengdu instead. No need to keep him in Hong Kong if I don't have to worry about getting him back to Davies every week."

Sam realized that Liu responded in English for a reason. He wanted Sam to hear his words.

He wanted Sam to know where he was headed, and he might have called it "Chengdu", but Sam only had one word for where Liu was taking him.

Hell.

* * *

Dean fell asleep in their rental car on the way to Davies' North Factory (he didn't know how his dad managed to get a rental car and convince the employee that he knew how to drive on the opposite side of the road and would be fine. No way he was letting something like driving on the left side of the road stop him from getting to his son). No matter how hard he tried, or how much adrenaline his body flooded into his veins, he couldn't seem to keep from nodding off anymore.

His dad called it 'jet lag'. The result of flying across the freaking world messing with him.

John and Caleb felt it, too. Which resulted in the only miracle to ever happen to the Winchester family: not getting in a car accident in Hong Kong.

Which also meant that John decided that after they go to the North Factory, no matter what they found or didn't find there, they had to find a motel and get some sleep. None of them would be able to make it much longer, and they all knew they were on the verge of being liabilities to each other.

But that didn't mean Dean had to like the plan. If Sam wasn't there, then they kept looking until they found Sam. It should be that simple, but nothing ever was. Not for them.

Falling asleep might have been a small blessing, however, as Dean realized that they were a matter of minutes away from the factory according to the directions they were given.

A matter of minutes away from Sam.

Dean found himself becoming more nervous the closer they got, because he never felt this close to Sam since his disappearance. He didn't know what he would say to Sam. He didn't know what he _could_ say to Sam. There weren't any words sufficient enough to convey how sorry he was that Sam got put in this situation to begin with. He could never say how much he wished it was him in Sam's place. How much he wished that he stayed at the motel with Sam that night.

How much he wished he could've gotten to Sam sooner and ended the pain.

It was too late for all of those wishes, and all Dean had left to offer Sam were promises. Promises that he would do his best to give Sam anything he needed to be better. Promises that he would take care of Sam like he said he would so many times, but never seemed able to follow through on.

John's muttered, "Shit."

Dean was pulled back to reality, and it didn't take long for him to see what made his exhausted father break into a string of cursing under his breath.

The factory was in ruins. Crumpled to the ground like an aluminum soda can crushed underfoot.

"What the hell happened?" Dean asked. He knew that neither his father nor Caleb could answer him, but the question blurted out of his mouth unbidden anyway.

"We're too late," John said. "If Sam was here, he definitely isn't anymore."

"So, what do we do now?" Dean asked.

John sighed. "We get some sleep, then go back to the original plan. Start checking nearby factories. See if we can find anything out about Sam or Davies," he said. He turned to look at Caleb. "Think you could do a little snooping to see if you can find out anything about what happened here? Looks like the place has been burnt to the ground, so there has to be some sort of report on it."

Caleb nodded. "I'll do what I can," he promised.

The car was back in motion and headed towards the neon signs in search of a motel. Dean wanted to protest that they couldn't stop and take a break without any leads left on Sam, but he couldn't find the words over the all-encompassing disappointment weighing him down.

This was supposed to have been it. Sam was supposed to be there. He was supposed to be _right there._ It was supposed to have been the end of this nightmare, but it wasn't.

Dean knew from the beginning of their trip to the factory that he shouldn't get his hopes up, but he did. Now, he was paying for that with the sting of tears behind his eyes and the nagging voice in the back of his head reciting to him how much of a failure he was.

They pulled into a motel parking lot and John got a couple of rooms. Caleb got his own, but Dean never had the privilege anymore. Not since Sam was taken. He was kept in John's sight like a toddler, unless they were actively chasing a lead.

Despite the fact that all of them were having difficulty keeping their eyes open, Dean felt like stopping for even a short rest was a betrayal to Sam. When they were this close—when _Sam_ was this close—they should be out scouring the city every single second until they found him.

"We aren't giving up on him, Dean," John said, sinking into his bed. He looked ten years older than he had when Sam disappeared, and Dean realized he was no longer quite sure how long it'd been.

"I know," Dean said, distracted by a calendar he found in the room. English words written under the traditional characters.

It was November.

Sam went missing the first week in October. Dean remembered feeling guilty that they wouldn't be enrolling him in school for awhile yet since the hunt with Caleb wasn't going to take long enough. He felt guilty that Sam wouldn't have anything to occupy his time other than crappy daytime TV.

He remembered the chill in the air, the first signs of autumn's approach. Had it really been about a month?

But it took them almost a week to get close enough with the traffickers to gain enough trust to be invited to an auction. Then, they went back and forth between Massachusetts and Pennsylvania. Then, to Nebraska.

Dean knew that all of those trips back and forth, all of the time they spent seeking and interrogating, meant wasting precious minutes, but had they really wasted _that_ many minutes?

"Dean, what are you doing?"

Dean turned around to look at his dad. "It's November?"

John looked as confused as he did. He got up and looked at the calendar in Dean's hands. "But it was just the beginning of October," he said with a desperation, like it would change the date.

He looked as lost and as pained as Dean felt. He ran a hand through his hair.

"How is that possible?" he asked.

Dean wanted the answer to that as well, but he had a feeling that they would never find it.

"I don't know," was the only answer he came up with.

Dean watched his dad fight his own internal battle, probably the same one Dean faced. They were both exhausted, and that wouldn't help Sam. But Sam had been gone for so long, and every extra minute they wasted wouldn't help Sam either.

It was a lose-lose situation, but they both knew in the end that they needed to be rested in preparation for another long day of searching the hard way. Leads gone, crumbled like the North Factory.

Dean thought that he would face a restless night, unable to sleep no matter how much his body protested for a break because his brain was working in overtime.

Instead, he fell sleep within minutes of his head meeting the pillow.

* * *

They stopped a few times on the way to Chengdu, and Liu left the car at each stop. The task master kept on eye on Sam during those times, but he wouldn't have been able to make a run for it anyway.

The wounds on his back left him stiff and aching. The cut on his leg burned, and he wondered if it would get infected from being cut by a piece from a rusted machine and then being left untreated.

Every time Liu came back, he went back to running his hand over Sam's head.

Whatever kind of cologne he used slowly suffocated Sam and gave him a splitting headache.

Some times he would rearrange the blanket around Sam. Like he was trying to keep Sam warm. Like he was doing Sam a favor.

This was the one time that he wished he was unconscious through it all. Locked away in a deep sleep.

And, of course, this was the one time that his body decided it would like to cling onto consciousness.

It took over a day to get to Chengdu. Sam figured it out by watching the sky grow light and then dark again.

When they finally stopped, Sam had to be carried again (Liu made a quiet comment to his task master about Sam's leg and back, but he couldn't quite hear what about them). He felt like he was headed to the gallows as they passed under the neon signs hung overhead the club's door.

And in a way, he might have been. This could be the shitty end to his shitty life. He always imagined that it would be a hunt that took him out. He always imagined that Dean would be hovering over him when he bit it (because he never allowed himself to imagine the possibility of Dean dying before him), whispering words of comfort and empty promises that he'd be okay.

He never imagined that it would be in China. Hidden in the backroom of a club after his humanity had been thoroughly stripped from him by strangers until he no longer remember what it felt like. Dark and alone with only the thrum of electric music breaking the silence.

A solitary end to it all.

* * *

Dean woke up when it was still dark out and wondered how long passed. He felt surprisingly rested for it to still be night.

He stretched his arms over his head and sat up, ready to rouse his dad and start the search for Sam again. But when he looked over, he could see John's bed was empty with the city lights that made it through the thin motel curtains.

He turned on the lamp between the beds.

"Dad?" he called.

The bathroom door was open and it was dark and empty.

His dad wasn't in the room at all.

He was about to start making calls, when the door opened and John walked in with two cups of coffee. If he was surprised that Dean was up, he didn't show it.

"Coffee in the middle of the night?" Dean asked.

John shrugged. "Yeah. I guess the jet lag hit us all harder than we expected. I just got Caleb up, too. He's getting ready and then we'll hit the road."

"What do you mean 'hit us harder than we expected'?" Dean asked, taking one of the coffees and pulling the lid off. "It's only been a couple of hours."

"Dean, it's been an entire day," John said.

Dean almost dropped his drink. "Excuse me?"

"It's been more than a couple of hours," John reiterated. "More like twenty-four hours."

"Why didn't you wake me earlier? That's an entire day lost and we still don't know which hellhole Sam is in!"

"I know that my youngest son needs me—has needed me—Dean, but I was sleeping, too," he snapped back. "If I hadn't absolutely needed the sleep, you know I would have skipped it."

Dean knew that. He witnessed it before. School teachers might have thought of John as an absent parent every time Dean showed up in his place for Sam. Sam might have thought the same at times, with the added knowledge that some nights he drank too much and left them to fend for themselves (and they were used to it).

But Dean saw that he tried his best to be a good father. He was there when they really needed him. And Dean wished that Sam saw it, too.

He hoped that John would prove that to Sam by helping him once they found him. By going through with his words that they'd let him rest at Pastor Jim's. That he would stick to the plan of finding out what's best for Sam and following through on it.

That he would simply be there for Sam.

He hated that it took Sam being trafficked to make them both realize what they needed to do to keep the fragile connections of their family from snapping.

If Sam wanted to doubt anyone, if Sam wanted to lose his faith in anyone, Dean supposed it should have been him all along. Not their father.

"Where do we start?"

"Another factory isn't too far from here," John said. "If they transferred the workers temporarily, I doubt they'd go far. Besides, it might be easier to catch one of the task masters out at this time of night."

* * *

There weren't any non-employees in the club. Sam guessed that it might still be too early for it to be open. It was dark out, sure, but he didn't know the hours (he didn't know the current hour it was either).

He could guess that Liu had been anticipating him. They reached one of the back doors, with a security guard leaning against the wall. He glanced around and with a quick tap on the wall, opened a door hidden there.

The task master carried Sam down the stairs behind Liu. At the bottom was a dimly lit hallway with closed, numbered doors lining either side.

Sam caught the number on the door they took him through.

18166.

The same number that permanently marked his arm.

His heart raced as he was set down on the bed—softer than most he'd been on in motel room after motel room. The numbers on the doors weren't just numbers. They were the numbers of the slaves kept within those rooms.

He couldn't remember how long the hallway had been, but now it stretched on forever in his mind. How many poor souls were locked behind the doors, trapped in a place where they weren't worth more than their body?

The task master laid Sam on his stomach, a small mercy that spared his back more pain. He shuffled off after Liu said something about getting a kit.

He disappeared behind the door. Sam didn't see a lock on it, but he could guess that there was a lock on the outside to keep him in. There was another door, no locks, and he was reminded of the first place he was held. The one that looked like an old, abandoned hospital with adjoining bathrooms.

And it made sense that Liu would want him kept clean. That Liu would furnish the rooms so nicely.

For his clients.

Sam felt his shirt being lifted off, and tried to bat away Liu's hands, but he didn't have the energy. Especially not when Liu pressed his hand down on the lashing wounds that seemed to refuse healing.

The task master came back with a first aid kit and Liu started with the rubbing alcohol to clean his back. It was a familiar burn, one he felt many times after hunts when he ended the night with a few scrapes. But never on this many at one time.

The hardest part was not being able to make a noise throughout the cleaning. He kept his teeth clenched shut so tight, he feared they might break. Though that was a better alternative to being shocked again.

It was over as quickly as it started, and they coated his back in something cool that soothed the fresh burning before bandaging him.

They repeated the treatment on the cut on his leg, but it was even quicker and the rubbing alcohol barely burned. Not after experiencing it sear the entirety of his back.

Liu and the task master were surprisingly gentle while tending to his wounds, and it was just another reminder that he was no longer Davies'. It was another reminder as to what sort of fresh Hell he faced.

He refused to look at the far wall. He refused to pay any mind to the things kept there meant to be used for twisted pleasure.

A cup of tea, warm and steaming, was pressed into his hands. He didn't have the energy to fight it, and if he was honest with himself, he knew he needed to drink something. It'd been too long since he last had a sip of anything.

And maybe it was a mistake that he drank so easily, so trusting, from the cup given to him because he felt its effect within minutes.

They put something in his tea. A sedative, if he had to guess, because his eyelids grew too heavy to keep open and slipped shut, allowing him to fall into a drug-induced, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Dean was the one who got to successfully capture one of the task masters at the factory this time, and he took great satisfaction in it. He kept his knife pressed up against the man's neck, ready and waiting to split apart his flesh.

He felt the man shaking in fear through the entire walk to one of the backrooms. They passed room after room of sleeping slaves. Dean took a quick look in each one, trying to find Sam, and swore that if he found Sam among the sleeping, he'd slit the man's throat, grab Sam, and be done with all of it.

But he didn't see Sam, so they made it all the way to a backroom both alive. John tied the man's hands behind his back, and only then did Dean pull away his knife.

"We have questions," John stated. "You answer them. You get to live. Understand?"

The man nodded, trying to back himself into the corner, like it would help him. Like the corner could protect him.

"18166," John said.

He didn't have to ask if the man knew that number, the way he lost all color in his face answered for them.

This man knew something about Sam, and no one would be leaving the room until he told them each and every bit he knew.

"No, no, no, no," he said. "Davies transferred me here. He said I'd never have to deal with that kid again. He promised!"

"Why don't you want to deal with him?"

"My friend was supposed to take him to be punished, but the building went up in flames with the kid at the center. He said the kid is a spirit sent to punish us for our work. It's immoral. I know that. All the task masters know that, but it's not enough to stop most of us. He quit, and I tried to, but Davies threatened to take my little sister if I did. He thinks that I'm going to rat him out the first chance I get," the man blurted out, nearly in tears. "I'm doing it for her."

John sighed and ran his hand down his face. Dean understood the frustration. How were they supposed to deal with someone who was part of this human trafficking and slavery operation when he was doing it to protect his family? Wouldn't any of them do the same if they had to?

The words left Dean a little confused. The task master's friend (and possibly the task master in front of them) thought Sam was some sort of vengeful spirit, but the place just went up in flames. How could they blame Sam for that? In fact, if the state of the factory they were in now was any indication, the factory Sam was in had been begging for a fire to start with how little upkeep the place saw.

"The reports say that it was an electrical fire," Caleb said.

The man shrugged. The same sort of shrug that Dean saw from witness after witness during hunts. The I'm-going-to-believe-what-I- _know_ -happened shrug.

"Okay, then where is he now?" Dean asked. "If you were transferred here to avoid dealing with him, that means he's somewhere else."

"Taken to Davies. I don't know what Davies did with him. He just promised that I would never see him again, and that was good enough for me."

"Where is Davies now?" John asked.

"A hotel maybe. He might be back in the morning. Dealing with a factory burning down is making him stay in Hong Kong more than normal," he said.

It was Dean's turn to sigh. They get so close, just to feel farther away with every lead they chase.

Caleb stood guard at the door, and pulled out his gun when they heard a soft knock. He nodded to John before opening the door.

The person on the other side was a kid, older than Sam probably, but still a kid. He had on plain clothes and a collar around his neck.

Dean saw a string of numbers on his arm. He wasn't sure how much help a slave could be in helping them find a lead on Sam.

"I heard you walk past the bedrooms," he explained. "So I followed, because, well, someone made me realize that I don't have anything to lose by helping others. Not really. And then I heard you mention 18166."

"What do you know about 18166?" John asked.

The task master looked relieved by the interruption taking the focus off of him, but Dean kept a watchful eye on him.

"I pulled him out of the fire at the other factory," he said. "If you're looking for him, I'd like to do what I can to help. Kid deserves it."

"We'll take all the help we can get," John said.

John Winchester: the man who preferred to hunt on his own or with a select few people. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and if he had to work with strangers to get Sam back, Dean knew he would.

The slave nodded.

Dean looked once more at the numbers on his arm.

14710.

* * *

Sam's back felt a lot better in the morning. Whatever they spread on it did wonders. It felt good enough that he managed to sit up and eat some of his breakfast—which had a lot more variety and flavor than what he got at the factory. It wasn't what he would have chosen for himself to eat for breakfast, but it wasn't rice porridge either.

A task master (were they still considered that there, or were they more of slave keepers?) came in and redressed his back after breakfast with more of the soothing ointment. Cream. Whatever it was, he didn't really care about the specifics.

He was left alone most of the day, and it grew difficult to keep his guard up with the much nicer treatment he received there. The biggest problem he encountered was the boredom that was quick to set in. There was even less to do in his current room than in the standard motel room. At least most motel rooms had TVs that worked, with or without static flooding their images. At least in motel rooms, he usually had homework to do or research he could work on for any number of hunts.

And he never thought the day would come when he missed helping with hunts, but he'd gladly choose that life over this. He just hated that it took something this awful to make him appreciate the life he once had.

Despite all of that, he could almost fool himself into thinking that he wasn't there to be used as some sort of toy by strangers. That he wasn't just there to rack in money for Liu.

He could almost fool himself of all of that until a few hours (he thought, there were no clocks for him to keep track with) after his dinner, when the door to his room opened and it wasn't Liu or a task master that walked in.

It was a client.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Sam is receiving kind treatment for all the wrong reasons, while his family + Caleb are desperate to find a new lead. Doesn't seem like they're going to make it on time, but maybe Sam has a trick or two up his sleeve?

Anyway, thank you to everyone who reviews, follows, favorites, and simply reads! I'm glad that you all seem to be enjoying the story so far. Take a minute and leave a review before you go with your thoughts, I'd really appreciate it.

To the Guest reviewer from last chapter: It makes me so happy that you consider my story your favorite! I will always be glad to inflict fresh, soul-destroying terror upon you!


	13. Another Night of Fire

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Vague sort-of sexual content. Violence. Drugs. Also, don't expect perfect accuracy. I try my best to do research on what I include, but a lot of it is definitely not my field.

* * *

Sam noticed the man's leer first, smug like he already won some grand prize. With every step he took forwards, Sam pressed himself farther into the corner of his bed, torn between wanting to get away and not wanting to appear weak before his predator.

When healthy, Sam would have had a fighting chance against the man. He was well-built with the 'tough-guy' presence that he witnessed time and again at bars when Dean would hustle pool. It was the same presence Dean carried around. But he was just one man, and Sam might be small, but he spent his life with his dad and brother teaching him to fight monsters.

As it were, Sam felt the strain on the lattice patterned cuts marring his back with each movement. The cuts that were just finally starting to heal.

His breathing sped up and he could hear his own heartbeat roar, louder than the beat of the music from the dance floor above, in his ears when the man invaded his personal space. When he was so close that Sam smelled the alcohol warm on his breath.

The man laughed at Sam's struggles, like it was all a game to him. Sam realized that the people allowed down into the hidden hallway were probably regular customers if they knew about its existence in the first place, paying more than once for a few hours with a slave. The struggle was just part of their game. Part of their fun.

Sam couldn't even make a sound throughout. He couldn't call for help, not that there was anyone who would hear it. Not that there was anyone who would help him.

Sam saw the man's eyes widen in fear above him before he realized what happened. The feel of hands on his bare skin snapped the same section of his mind, the one that went haywire in the factory.

The man scrambled away with flames licking at his skin, rushing out of the door and leaving Sam on the bed surrounded in fire.

He watched them dance around him, but he didn't bother to escape from their heat. If they wanted him, they could have him.

But the world seemed unwilling to let him burn away. Screeching fire alarms started to go off and sprinklers rained water down on him and his room.

He closed his eyes and let the freezing water soak him until it left him shivering.

When the sprinklers and alarms stopped, Sam's room was reduced to a soggy, scorched mess. He wanted the fire back. He needed it back.

If no one else would save him, at least he still had those flames. At least he still had confirmation that _he_ was the cause of them. Somehow, he started two fires solely with his mind. And that gave him a sense of comfort. It was something that was a part of him. Something that was always meant to be a part of him. He _felt_ it. It started unintentionally, sure, but it was only a matter of time until he figured out how to use it intentionally.

And he had nothing else to occupy his time during the day in that room.

He looked over and saw Liu standing against the door frame, but not making any move to enter Sam's room.

He crossed his arms and stared. Looking for something, but Sam didn't know what.

Sam knew only a handful of things with certainty at that moment. He was exhausted. He could create fire with his mind.

And he would watch Liu burn.

* * *

14710 kept glancing over his shoulder, even after Caleb let him in and shut the door behind him. He avoided looking at the task master, tied up and left in the corner due to the sudden interruption. While Dean thought the slave might be around his height if he stood up straight, it was too difficult to tell with him hunched in on himself.

Dean couldn't stop himself from staring at the numbers on 14710's arm. His dad told him that Sam's number was '18166', but now he wondered if it was marked on his skin in ink too.

And that was the last thing the kid would need, a reminder of the hell he went through.

"You helped Sam?" John prompted.

"That's his name?" 14710 asked. He cleared his throat quickly, like he was embarrassed, and continued. "Yeah. The building was going down in flames, and he was struggling just to stand. There was no way he could have gotten out on his own."

"Why not?"

14710 shook his head. "Kid had been whipped two days before that. Then, a piece from one of the machines fell and caught him on the leg."

Dean felt his stomach twist itself into knots. Sam was whipped and he wasn't there. Sam had been hurting, and Dean wasn't there for him.

A stranger was there instead. A stranger instead of his big brother. His own flesh and blood.

The person who should've been there for him a month ago.

"Why was he whipped?" Caleb asked the question that neither Dean nor John could bring themselves to ask.

14710 smiled, but it was bitter and cold. "Because he saved another kid," he said. "Problem was that he ruined a lot of finished product doing it, and to them, that's worth more than the life of one slave."

Dean shook his head. He imagined that being trafficked wouldn't be fun for Sam, he knew that from the beginning. But the more he learned about Sam's time as a slave (which still wasn't over, he reminded himself), the more he wished for the return of his ignorance.

He never handled seeing Sam in pain well, but hearing about the pain Sam endured without him was worse. Dean almost felt every lash inflicted upon Sam on his own back, and he didn't even know how many times Sam was struck with a whip. Ten? Twenty? One hundred?

The air in the room was suddenly too thick and too difficult to breath. He forced himself to regain some semblance of control and take over his breathing. Slow it, before he hyperventilated.

He drove the heels of his hands into his eyes until it hurt, hoping that this would all be just remnants of a bad dream once he woke up. Maybe it was all just the result of a hunt gone wrong that left him with a head injury and brain damage.

Because waking up and being told he had brain damage would be better than this.

No one talked, and 14710 took that as his signal to keep going. "They loaded us onto trucks again. No use in keeping a bunch of slaves at a nonoperational factory, you know? Everyone had a soft spot by then for 18166."

"Sam," Dean interrupted. "It's Sam."

"Sam," 14710 corrected. "They let him lean on them throughout the trip. Tried to comfort him however they could, even if they didn't have much to work with. I don't know if he noticed any of it. He was, uh, he was really out of it."

Leave it to Sam to have a bunch of slaves concerned about his well-being.

Leave it to Sam to find a way to still save others when _he_ needed saving.

"And then?" John asked.

Dean swore he saw a glint of pride in his father's eyes, hidden within the sorrow and rage.

"We arrived here. I helped take Sam up to Davies' office, but I never saw him after that."

"Take us to Davies' office," Dean demanded.

"Yeah, of course," he said. "But, well, do you think you could help me get out of this place after? This isn't a life. Not really."

"We'll take you to the airport. Buy you a plane ticket. Buy you a taxi ride. Whatever you want, man. Just help me find my little brother," Dean said. "Please."

14710 nodded, looked like he was going to say something, but shook his head against it. He only said, "Yeah. I can do that."

He led the way, and John hauled the task master along with them, keeping his hand clasped firmly over the man's mouth to keep him from alerting anyone.

The task masters were real slackers at night, Dean realized. They didn't notice 14710 leave, and they didn't even notice the group of them moving through the factory.

The office wasn't anything special. There were probably thousands that looked just like it in Hong Kong and across America in standard office buildings that did standard work.

Only this office had bloodstains on the floor across from the desk. Not big, but big enough to notice.

Dean had a bad feeling that it was Sam's blood that stained the otherwise polished and sparkling tiles.

They locked themselves in and prepared to spend the rest of the night hoping that Davies would show up in the morning.

* * *

Liu had to move Sam into a new room, his old one too damaged to be repaired in a timely manner.

But Liu still wanted to get his investment back from Sam, and then some with the damages he was causing.

Within hours, a design of flames had been drawn on the door to his new room. He heard them do it, but didn't get to see it until a task master came in to give him his next meal.

He didn't particularly feel like eating after his experience with a client, even if it didn't end the way he was sure most encounters did in that hidden hallway, and most of it went untouched. Especially the little red tablet that sat innocuously in the corner of the tray.

He didn't know what they were trying to give him, but he wasn't going to take it. Not willingly.

And those weren't acceptable options. He could tell by the look on the task master's face when he came with the intention of collecting Sam's tray, but found it still full instead.

Jerry and Rich emphasized the 'force' part of force-feeding, but this task master went about it in a different manner. One that Sam couldn't discern as better or worse.

He turned the shock collar on with the little remote stored in a locked drawer in the room until Sam couldn't regain control over his own body. Then, he pushed the pill from the corner of the tray between Sam's lips along with a mouthful of tea. He massaged Sam's throat until he reflexively swallowed.

It left a sweet aftertaste. Chocolate-y. It reeked of chocolate too, but that was one thing that Sam sure it wasn't.

The task master left without bothering to get any of the food into Sam, and he found that the most concerning part.

What the hell was that pill if getting Sam to take it was more important than getting him to eat?

* * *

Dean stood close to 14710. It wasn't due to a lack of trust, but out of curiosity. They kept it dark in Davies' office, but the light of the city flooded in through the windows and gave Dean's glimpses of 14710's state. Gave him glimpses of old injuries.

And Dean didn't like what he saw. He didn't like the knowledge this stranger gave him about Sam having been whipped. He didn't like that this stranger had to drag Sam out of a burning building because Dean hadn't been there for his little brother.

He especially didn't like the other markings of man-made wounds on 14710.

He really, _really_ didn't want to know how many similar marks were on Sam now.

"You're his brother, then?" 14710 asked.

There wasn't much for any of them to do in the office. John was quietly interrogating the task master, who seemed more or less willing to cooperate in hopes that he'd live at the end of it, and Caleb watched the door.

Dean and 14710 were the odd ones out.

"Yeah." He left out the part of how he was a pretty awful brother to Sam lately. Unintentional or not, he couldn't forgive that.

"I think you would've been proud of how he handled himself. I've been trapped like this for years, but I've never seen someone like him. He gave up his own meal and faced punishment for it. Just so that a little girl wouldn't have to go hungry over an accident."

Dean _was_ proud. He was proud just hearing about Sam giving himself up just for someone else, and it was exactly like Sam to do such a thing.

"Thanks," Dean said. "For telling me that."

As much as he didn't want to hear about Sam being punished at all, he was glad that his brother didn't seem to have changed much through all of this. Not at heart. Sam might be broken when they found him, but not irreparable. Not if 14710's words were true.

"You, uh, got a name?" Dean asked. He couldn't keep referring to the kid as a string of numbers in his mind.

Though he wished he kept his mouth shut with the way that 14710's face paled, then became overshadowed with confusion.

"I don't know," 14710 said. "It's been so long since I haven't been '14710'. I can't remember what came before that."

14710 put his hands on either side of his head and rocked slightly back and forth. "I can't remember," he repeated in whispers. "I can't remember."

Dean place his hand on the kid's shoulder, unsure of what else he could really do. "It's okay," he said. "You can choose what you want to be called instead, huh? Choose what name you want to start your new life with. A fresh, complete start that way. Your own terms. You call that shots. That doesn't sound so bad, does it?"

14710 shook his head. He stopped his rocking, but left his hands on his head. "It doesn't."

Dean suppressed his sigh and let his hand stay rested on 14710's shoulder. He had no idea if it was comforting, but it wasn't hurting him.

Was this how Sam would be when they found him? Would he be better? Worse?

Would he remember his own goddamn _name_?

Dean had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

* * *

Sam couldn't stop moving. He had no idea what that pill forced down his throat had been, but he knew that it was responsible for the way his heart felt like it was trying to pump itself out of his chest. No matter how much he scratched at it, it wouldn't go away.

Was there blood under his fingernails?

The cuts on his back and leg were thoroughly numb. He bent and twisted and felt no pain from them, though he thought it should have hurt. He should have felt something other than nauseated and like he was about to crawl out of his own skin.

Electronic music thumped in the main area of the club above him, and he wondered how long it would be until a client was sent down to him. He wondered if one would be sent down at all, after what happened to the previous one.

He was way too warm and fire roared in his head, begging to break out.

Against the inkling of logic lingering in the back of his mind, he felt that he could destroy the entire club at that moment. Burn it down like he did the factory.

Was the beat of the music too slow? Or was it too fast? He shook his head. It didn't matter. Not really. It just sounded weird. Off.

What the hell did they give him?

* * *

Dean couldn't begin to explain how fucked up his luck had to be that, when he wanted to find Sam, he found nothing. But when it came to people he wanted to kill, he seemed able to find them in abundance.

Davies was currently at the top on that list, strapped down to his own office chair. His security was piss poor anyway, but at the same time, Dean imagined that not only did he not spend all of his time in Hong Kong, he probably never expected that three grown men, one of his own slaves, and one of his task masters (unwillingly) would be camping out in his office and ready to subdue him.

Last time, saying '18166' brought fear into their current interrogation target. This time, Davies filled with anger instead.

"Glad to be rid of the bastard," he said.

"Why'd you get rid of him?" John asked. All routine, despite the importance of it all. Despite the fact that this was about his own son.

Or perhaps, he was routine because of that fact. Keep the emotions at bay for now. Take care of business.

Dean couldn't have done it.

"Doesn't matter to you," Davies said.

Dean figured out quickly that 14710 had a certain squeamishness to him. He couldn't watch John's interrogation methods without looking like every piece of food he'd eaten in the last year was about to make a reappearance.

They didn't have their normal arsenal with them, but John made do with what he did have and dislocated the joints in Davies' fingers one at a time. He always made sure that some cloth kept Davies' screams muffled before he caused any pain.

They could do without suspicion or concerned task masters interrupting.

It was bad enough that each pop of a joint being misplaced sent 14710 into a new bout of trying not to throw up.

Dean's hand on his shoulder wasn't as comforting this time around, and he was at a loss as to what could possibly help this stranger. This stranger who experienced a hell similar to what Sam was still going through.

He couldn't exactly take 14710 out of the room to spare him the torture scene happening right in front of his eyes. Where could they possibly go in a factory filled with slaves and their task masters, who Dean guessed were a little more alert during the day, if only to look for anyone they could punish?

And to make it worse, John wasn't making much progress with Davies. Dean didn't know if Davies really had no idea what happened to Sam after he let go of his, God, _ownership_ of him, or if Davies was just a stubborn bastard who wanted to keep them guessing even if it left him dead by the end of it.

Some men wanted to watch the world burn, and Davies was probably one of them.

He did his best to distract 14710, but it never seemed like enough. Most things he did never seemed like enough anymore, and having to pull out techniques he used to comfort _Sam_ made it worse. It only emphasized Sam's absence, which left Dean feeling like he had bags of ice for organs.

Davies panted in the chair. If he stayed still enough, the pain from the joints in his hands would be tolerable. But he made little fidgety motions that jostled them.

"Look, that's enough," Davies said. "I can't tell you where the kid is exactly, but I can get you in contact with someone who can. Liu and I call each other often enough. Part of business."

John nodded and picked up the phone from Davies' desk, putting it up to his ear. "You're going to talk to him and find where he took my son. Try and tip him off about us, and I promise that I will make you into as little of a man as you are at heart."

Davies nodded his understanding and recited a phone number for John to punch in.

"Hey, Liu," Davies said. "You know, I was thinking that we could work something out with the kid. Now that I've calmed down and all."

Davies was good at hiding the pain in his voice, at least. Dean could tell it was still there, but he doubted that it would be audible over the phone.

"I just feel like I haven't gotten my money's worth from him," Davies said.

There was a pause, Davies kept glancing over at John while he stayed on the phone.

"Is he? Well, I guess that's a shame, huh?" Davies said. "Maybe we can work out something better next time."

He looked over and nodded at John, who put the phone back in its cradle.

"Liu took him to a club in Chengdu," Davies said. "He isn't even in Hong Kong anymore."

Dean felt his heart go into his throat, and thought he might cough it up in his shock. "Excuse me?"

John ignored him. "How long does it take to get there?"

"Driving would take over a day. And that's if you drove straight through."

"If we flew?"

Davies shook his head. "Two or three hours, maybe? I don't know. I don't go to Chengdu often, all of my business is in Hong Kong and America. Liu likes his spread out across Asia."

John nodded, and Davies sighed with relief. "So, I can go?" he asked.

John looked at him, then pulled a knife from a sheath hidden in his boot. "You hurt my son," John said. "I can't forgive that."

It was quick, just a slit of the throat. Too quick, for Dean's tastes, but they were still on a timeline.

"What about the task master?" Dean asked. "What do we do with him?"

John slit his throat, too. The task master said he tried quitting, and he could have with Davies gone. But John killed him instead, and Dean couldn't help but wonder if that was the right thing to do. Davies deserved death, of course. But did the task master?

The first time looked hard enough for 14710 to witness and not throw up, but the second time left him retching in the corner.

"We better get going," John said.

Dean ushered 14710 along with him, and 14710 directed all of them through the back sections of the factory since it was similar to the previous one was at. They went through the places that were rarely used.

Dean couldn't help but think of the task master's comment about his little sister. That he was doing all of it for her. Dean could respect that, he would do whatever he had to in order to protect Sam.

He just wished he could get the thought out of his head that they took away a little girl's big brother.

* * *

Sam rubbed at his eyes, but his vision never cleared. It wasn't this bad at first, but it seemed to be getting progressively worse. When someone walked through the door, they were just a blur. And was that another blur following them in?

He still hasn't figured out how to control the fire begging inside of him. Begging to help him burn the world.

He was pacing, and the two blurs tried to get him back to the bed. But then one is running from the room and Sam thought that he might have gouged out an eye. He felt it in his hand, felt it give way to his thumb digging in.

The other blur managed to cuff Sam's hands behind his back in his surprise at the sudden commotion.

He felt blood on his hand and he was alone to wait again.

The next set of blurs had an easier time with his hands behind his back, but Sam learned one thing about his power. Regardless of whether or not he could control it, it still kicked in when things went too far. Especially when whatever pill they gave him had the flames licking at the inside of his skull in anticipation of being released.

When hands got just a little too hands-y, they were pulled back with a feral scream and Sam felt the heat radiate from them. He smelled the burning flesh.

He was pretty sure that was a fire extinguisher that the one blur held, but everyone was gone too quickly and he was alone again.

It felt like a long time passed before his vision started to clear. He was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. He swore that every cell in his body still vibrated from whatever they gave him.

He turned his head at the sound of his door opening again, wondering if he still had the energy to fight off another client.

But it was just Liu and one of the task masters standing there.

"We can't do this," Liu said. "The extra charge isn't worth the amount I'll have to pay for medical bills."

"How is he doing it?"

"Davies' task masters thought he was some sort of spirit," Liu said, his voice mocking. "I don't think he's a spirit, but I don't think he's human either. Burn some incense. Keep him sedated. If we can't stop the problem, we should be able to keep it contained."

They left Sam alone with his thoughts.

 _Not human?_

* * *

They ended up stopping at a clinic to get the collar removed from 14710. The doctor had to saw it off after they couldn't find any normal locks, just a strange automatic one. Dean never saw anything like it before, and 14710 confirmed that Sam was collared, too.

Then it was back on the ferry and to the airport.

Dean looked at his own ticket in his hands, not excited about getting on yet another plane. Not excited about having to wait a couple more hours yet again, despite it still being the faster route to Sam than driving.

But he would do what he had to.

14710 took his ticket from John and thanked him.

"So, New York?" Dean asked.

"Guess so," 14710. "Right now, I'd just like to get back to my home country. I can decide what's next after. Maybe get my GED."

"Never got to graduate?" Dean asked.

14710 shrugged. "Never got to attend. I was just in middle school when… Well, it doesn't matter now."

He left in a bit of a hurry after that with a rushed goodbye and good luck, and Dean realized that he never got to ask what name 14710 planned on using.

Kid never even got to go to high school. Sam might have been a sophomore, but if they didn't get him back, he wouldn't get the chance to graduate either.

"We'll be in Chengdu before you know it," John said, taking the seat next to him.

Dean shrugged. "I heard some of what Davies said," he said. "We get in Chengdu, and then what? What if Liu moves him again? Davies said he has clubs throughout Asia, what's to stop him from sending Sam to one of the other ones?"

"One thing at a time," Caleb said. "He's in Chengdu, we find him. He isn't in Chengdu, we still find him. And that's that."

Dean ran his hands through his hair.

"I hate this."

John and Caleb kept silent at that, but Dean knew they hated it, too. Always feeling so close, only to end up feeling farther away than ever.

 _Can you hold on just a little longer, Sammy? I promise, it's just a few more hours._

* * *

 **Author's Note:** They're so close now! Dean says a few more hours, but do things always go according to plan for them? Only about 3 chapters left, and then the sequel (which will likely be quite long). I hope that all of you are still enjoying the ride.

Thank you to everyone who follows, favorites, reads, and reviews. I know some of the content might not be something everyone is comfortable with, but I'll be keeping it vague and do my best with warnings.

I'm kind of a review junkie, so if you could take a moment to help me get my fix, I'd appreciate it!


	14. Another Numbered Door

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Implied/vague sexual content. Also, do not take anything portrayed here as accurate. I do my best to get close to accuracy, but I'm not a professional in most areas, so it won't be perfect. I've also never been to China, so I don't know what, exactly, Chengdu is like.

Other than that, enjoy this extra long chapter!

* * *

The sun was setting when their plane finally took off. In the hours before hand, all Dean could think of was Liu's business. All he could hope was that they'd still get there in time before Liu sold him for…

Dean couldn't finish those thoughts.

He ran his hands over his face and barely registered the turbulence when it would normally leave him clutching the armrests of his seat.

"Hey, Dad?"

"What?"

"If what 14710 said is true, then Sam probably won't be very comfortable on a plane. It'd kill his back," Dean said.

If two hours was unpleasant for Dean, he couldn't imagine what the ride all the way back to America would feel like for an injured Sam.

"We'll make sure he's comfortable," John said. "Find a flight without too many stops. Give him some sleeping pills if we need to. Pain killers, too."

"What if he's not in any shape to travel?" Dean asked.

"We could stay in China, but I don't think he'd want to after all of this. It would probably be best to get him to Pastor Jim's as soon as we can. Someplace familiar and comforting for him to heal up at. But if he wants to stay and wait until he's more healed, then we'll stay."

Dean nodded.

"Does Jim know we're gonna be heading there?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," John said. "I called and filled him in once I realized that this was going to be worse than I first thought. He'll have everything set up for us to stay as long as we need. Said that he'll keep Sammy in his prayers, of course."

Dean let the silence stretch between them, wondering how much a prayer was worth if Sam was still stuck in this mess. Did God even care about the kid?

Caleb fell asleep, and Dean couldn't even guess how a ferry ride made him throw up, but a plane that shook in the air _above the clouds_ could lull him to sleep.

Dean knew the routine by now. Once they reached cruising altitude, the flight attendants walked up and down the aisle to give out drinks and a little snack (nothing big on such a short flight).

The flight attendant for their section stopped for a second and attempted flirting with Dean, but he couldn't bring himself to even try returning the gesture. He might become a monk at this rate, turning down all the pretty girls, but nothing felt right when he knew Sam was in danger. When he knew Sam was hidden away in some sleazy nightclub that sold _people_ for a few hours at a time.

And one of those paper bags to help prevent hyperventilation would be fantastic right about now.

* * *

Whatever they gave him started to wear off, and Sam's vision slowly cleared. He still felt too tightly strung to fall asleep, no matter how his tired body protested, and he wasn't sure if that was due entirely to the drugs or to his overuse of his power.

Task masters entered as a pair, one with a fire extinguisher, the other with incense and an unlabeled prescription bottle filled with green tablets that had a 'V' shape cut out of the middle.

The fire extinguisher was set down and Sam's hands were untied from when they tried to tame him while the other drug sent his power haywire. Sam figured they couldn't know that they wouldn't be needing the fire extinguisher. He was so drained from using his power, he didn't know how long it would be before he could tap into it again. But maybe they had an idea from how pathetic he must look if they were willing to untie his hands.

The other task master set the prescription bottle on the little nightstand in his room along with the incense. He started burning the incense, and it didn't take long for its scent to fill Sam's room. Earthy and pungent. Something that would leave him with a pounding headache in a matter of minutes.

Finished with their tasks, they left the room while Liu walked in. His hand had a tight hold on the bicep of a young girl, dressed in less than Sam and around his age. The biggest thing about Liu was his ego, and he wasn't an extraordinary man in any sense that Sam saw, but the tips of his fingers touched his thumb when wrapped around the girl's arm. Force-feeding, he figured, could only do so much for so long, and it left him wondering how long she'd been held in the club. How long she'd been suffering.

She was too thin. Her hair clean, but messy. The lines marring her face made her look double the age she must have been.

He caught sight of the tattoo on the inside of her forearm when Liu stepped closer, pulling her along.

55943.

She must have been from an area that hosted a lot of auctions to have a number that high.

Liu sat on the edge of his bed, the weight pulling Sam those few centimeters closer. 55943 sat beside Liu, still in his grasp and staring intently at the floor.

"I'm regretting my decision to stop Davies from gutting you to sell your organs and leave you in a ditch somewhere," he said. "But I also refuse to believe that you're unreasonable, given the stories I've heard. You took punishment for a little girl so that she could eat. You pulled a boy from a collapsing machine, and ruined a lot to do it. I know. I know it all."

Sam felt the constricting collar around his neck more prominently than ever before, stopping words before he could think of forming them with a promise of pain. When he wanted to summon his fire the most, it was out of reach. He used all he could for the time being. He needed to recharge, but how was it that Liu was always absent when he _could_ set fire at will?

It was Liu's flesh that he wanted to smell burning. It was Liu's screams that he wanted to hear.

"So I have a bit of a proposition for you," Liu said. "Since you like playing hero so much."

And wasn't that what got him into this mess in the first place?

"Obey and cooperate, let my clients have their good times."

Sam fixed his best glare on Liu, unable to do much else.

"Don't hurt them. Hell, you don't have to do much other than lay," Liu said. "But you listen to me and my task masters, and every night you obey is a night that this _sweet_ girl here will be given a break. Not a single client will enter her room. She can rest to her heart's content. Off limits, for all purposes."

Liu must have seen a shift in his expression because a serpentine grin spread across his face. "An offer you can't refuse, isn't it?"

Sam looked at 55943, who removed her gaze from the floor to watch him with an inkling of hope in her near-dead eyes. Grey eyes, like someone pricked them with a needle and drained their color.

Liu was right, and they both knew it. He would take that offer.

He would offer himself up to spare an already miserable girl more horrible memories.

Sam nodded. 55943's eyes brightened, and while Sam knew he was doing the _right_ thing, he wasn't sure he was doing the _best_ thing.

Liu grinned and gave him a few quick pats on his cheek with an icy hand. "I knew you could be reasonable. Davies just doesn't understand," he said. "He doesn't know the complexities. He can't see them."

Liu grabbed the bottle from the nightstand and popped it open, pouring out two tablets onto the palm of his hand. He held them out to Sam.

Sam let them drop into his own palm and stared for a second. They didn't have the overwhelming and sickly-sweet stench of chocolate rolling off of them like the last tablet that was forced down his throat. They look innocuous enough, but Sam knew that the truth was different.

Liu pressed a glass of water into Sam's free hand, not bothering to offer an explanation of what the tablets were for. Rather, he was wordlessly giving the order for him to swallow them.

Sam glanced at 55943 again, even if just to remind himself why he was doing this while his subconscious cried out that it was a bad idea. That he shouldn't be swallowing mystery drugs given to him by a stranger who wanted to use him.

But Sam let them pass through his lips and chased them down with water. Either they didn't have a taste, or he downed them fast enough that it didn't register.

Either way, Liu nodded at him, then took 55943 and left.

All Sam could do was wait for the effects to start kicking in and let them usher him into the next chapter of his waking nightmare.

* * *

When the plane touched down, Dean wanted to crack open the emergency exit and get moving. Instead, he was stuck while they waited for their gate at the airport to be free because another plane was still there. Still being boarded.

"Shouldn't they have planned it better?" Dean asked.

John grunted an answer.

Caleb shrugged. "Guess it just shows that hunting isn't the only profession full of bad planners."

"Hey, some hunters are great planners," Dean said.

"Name one."

"Sammy." The name slipped out before Dean could stop it, and the almost smiles on his and Caleb's faces fell.

In truth, he didn't understand why they tried joking when Sam was somewhere suffering in ways that they couldn't imagine, despite the glimpses they got from the traffickers, buyers, and even other slaves. Dean, especially, felt undeserving of their attempts to cheer him up. It was his fault that Sam wasn't there with them, and he would never forgive himself for it.

The only solace was that they were so close to Sam now, and Dean could finally begin to right his mistakes, though he knew they could never be fully righted.

Caleb tried to salvage the moment, and Dean appreciated it, but he didn't need to hear Caleb say, "Yeah, kid's always seen thirty steps ahead of anyone else."

Dean knew that. He knew that Sam might not be the biggest lover of hunting, but he was damn good at it.

They waited another thirty minutes in silence before they even had the chance to shove their way through the passengers grabbing their luggage from overhead and getting into the airport.

The only luggage Dean had was a stash of candy bars (probably half-melted by now) in his pockets from their stop at a Gas 'n Sip so long ago. The candy bars he took with the intention to give them to Sam when they found him.

Dean wasn't sure there was anything else he needed for luggage.

Step one, getting off the plane, was completed, but as they walked through the airport, Dean realized that this wasn't going to be as easy as he originally thought.

"How the hell are we supposed to find this place?" he asked.

The sun set at the start of their flight and wrapped the world in nighttime. Which meant that the library and their access to the internet and the ability to search for directions was greatly inhibited with the library being more than likely closed.

"It's not like we can just ask around about it and not look like perverts, right?" Dean asked. "Is it even under the same name as his locations in Hong Kong?"

"We could ask around about the nightlife of the city," Caleb suggested. "I'm pretty sure there's a fair amount of tourism here, so it wouldn't be uncommon for a bunch of clueless bastards to be asking for help finding their way around."

John gave a small, humorless laugh at that. "I might be a bit old to be asking about the club scene."

"The club we're looking for isn't exactly normal. Hell, there are probably plenty of creeps your age willing to pay for a few hours of…" Dean couldn't finish his own sentence. He hadn't meant to say that much, but once he started speaking, he couldn't seem to stop soon enough.

Caleb flagged down an airport employee just stepping away from the ground transportation information desk.

"What are the popular clubs of Chengdu?" Caleb asked. "Preferably those on the more exotic side."

The poor woman looked like she was afraid Caleb would drag her somewhere and beat her judging by the expression on her face, no matter how charming of a smile Caleb tried to plaster on. But she rattled off a quick list of popular nightclubs in Chengdu for the not-so-normal crowds before darting away with a mumbled excuse.

"She probably thinks you're a pervert, Caleb," Dean said. "Scared her away."

Caleb ignored Dean's comment and said, "She did mention one that matches Liu's club names, but I couldn't exactly ask her where it's at since she took off."

"It's a start," John said. "Go out and ask the locals for directions. Someone has to know how to get there from here. It should be open and full of business right now."

For Sam's sake, Dean hoped it wasn't.

* * *

The drugs kicked in quickly, and left Sam facing a new warped reality. Only this time, he struggled to keep his eyes open. He felt like he was submerged in water and every movement was weighted by the added density of the atmosphere.

Density is represent by the Greek letter 'rho', he remembered. He wasn't sure why that thought slipped into his head, but it left as abruptly as it arrived.

The scent of earthy incense still enveloped him, but he didn't have the headache he was sure it'd bring. He didn't feel much at all, when he thought about it. Just drained and disconnected. Sluggish, maybe.

There was music coming from above him. It sounded distorted again, like it had the last time mystery drugs were shoved down his throat. It was so far away, but he knew that it couldn't be. It was right above him. People danced right over his head without a clue of what laid beneath them.

Couldn't they feel the suffering contained within the hidden rooms? Couldn't they feel the fear or hear the cries?

If they did, they probably chalked it up to alcohol playing with their senses.

His eyes couldn't focus on one thing for too long, asking him to keep them open was already pushing his capabilities, but he found himself glancing at the door more than anything else.

He found himself hoping for Dean to bust in at any moment and take him away. Take him home.

But he never did.

His awareness came and went. The rest of the time he wasn't sure if he was even awake. It was like chunks of his memory were just ripped away and he was left wondering.

The constant presence of pounding music left him believing that the missing time from his memory wasn't a significant gap. It was a series of tiny gaps instead.

He felt warm breath against his cheek, laced with the scent of alcohol. He thought maybe someone was talking, but he couldn't tell for sure.

A few times he remembered uncoordinated struggles with his body barely able to respond to his brain's commands and being weighed down. He felt skin against his skin. Felt the touch infecting him like a disease.

At some point, the music was gone and he was alone in his room with a strange taste laced with hints of alcohol in his mouth. Worse than the morning taste that came after dinner being Dean's special we're-moving-and-have-to-get-rid-of-the-remaining-food meal that Sam could sometimes barely keep in his stomach. He drank the glass of water left on his nightstand, but it didn't feel like enough. He could drink a gallon, and it wouldn't have felt like enough.

A thick fog remained in his head and he was sore, but he made it into the attached bathroom and got the water running. The shower shelves were filled with bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash of all different scents.

Liu at least wanted them kept clean. Or at least give them the means to feel as clean as they could in such a dirty place. That probably worked to his advantage, Sam thought, having his 'workers' wanting to keep themselves clean and simply giving them the means. Less work for him, and probably a higher price to sell them at.

In the spray of steaming water, he barely felt the heat or the sting from his cuts (which he wondered if they'd reopened during any of his struggles, remembered or not). As an afterthought, he was glad that the collar on his neck seemed waterproof. The idea of dying didn't bother him as much as it should, but he didn't exactly want to go out via electrocution either. He wondered if he held out in the bathroom long enough, they would leave him alone or write him off as a lost cause.

He could guess at the answer, but also at the fact that Liu would be more likely to use that broken girl against him again. Threaten to hurt her in some way to get him back under his control, and he had to remind himself that he was doing this for her. He was letting them stuff him full of drugs and let strangers into his room.

He was glad that his memories were fuzzy at best and hoped that if he ignored them, they'd never surface and make him face them.

A few times, he swayed in the shower, but he never fell. A task master might have been there, keeping him upright and preventing him from letting water touch the cuts on his back, which were missing the bandages that were once wrapped around them, but Sam couldn't tell with certainty if he was alone or not.

So he scrubbed his skin with fumbling hands until it was bright red, and he still didn't feel any cleaner for his efforts. There was an invisible layer on his skin that he just couldn't wash off.

No matter what he did, he lost and Liu won.

* * *

Dean felt like he pulled aside ten people by now for directions to Liu's club, but it seemed like each new set of directions left him more lost. Maybe John and Caleb were having better luck, but he couldn't get any matching instructions.

One said it's blocks to the east, another said it's in the north side of the city. And Dean had no idea if any of them were right.

They had a matter of hours until the sun came up and the club, presumably, closed. Dean thought that making a stop to get some guns from somewhere wouldn't be a bad idea. They'd been able to smuggle small knives onto the plane (security hadn't been gold standard), but guns would have been impossible to get on board.

He flagged down his dad.

"Any luck?" he asked.

John shook his head. "Seems like no one can agree on where this place is, if they even know in the first place."

"Yeah," Dean said. "That's what I've gotten, too. It's like…"

Dean trailed off, but then blurted out, "It's like there's more than one of them in this city."

"That's a possibility. Then the hard part becomes finding out which one Sam is at."

"I've gotten a split between it being to the east, and it being at the north side of the city. What about you?"

"The same. The eastern one is closer, but that doesn't change the likelihood of Sam being there. It's a fifty-fifty shot," he said.

Dean and John regrouped with Caleb, who was beyond frustrated with the mix of directions he'd gotten.

They started with the eastern club, simply because it was closest. With no cash money for a cab or bus ride and no idea where the nearest car rental was (or if John could pull off the 'I can totally drive here' routine again), they had to walk. Dean wished he could hot wire a car, but there were too many people around that could see him.

Once they got closer, it seemed like every building was a buzzing part of the nightlife. By Dean's opinion, it took too long to walk to the area in the first place, and now they had to play Where's Sammy with the bare minimum of clues to help them.

And they had to do it before the club closed for the day.

None of them knew an inkling of Chinese, so they had to rely on strangers again and hope that they managed to find someone who could understand and help them.

Dean was pretty sure they found the right place, but he didn't know what to do beyond that. It looked like any other club, if a bit more out of the ordinary in the decoration department.

He glanced over and saw John and Caleb looking as lost as he felt.

"Where would he be?" Dean asked.

"Well, not in the open," John said. "There has to be some place hidden. Like a speakeasy. Say the password, be allowed in."

"Not like we have any better plan," Caleb said.

Through the use of his patented charm, Dean managed to find the security guard standing near the back entrance. The security guard who stood between average club-goers, and those who wanted a little something extra.

He didn't have money, but he had a silver tongue and his fists. So Dean negotiated a price with the man for a few hours behind the scenes of the club by saying that he was Davies' cousin and the guard must know how he and Liu are buddy-buddy, so it would be best if he cut the crap because Dean knew that he was guarding a little more than the club's back door. He felt like a run-of-the-mill ball of sleaze pervert getting in, but he reminded himself it was for Sam. That the way he felt couldn't be anywhere near the way Sam felt.

The guard tried to get the money from Dean, but a quick couple of punches left him unconscious on the ground while Dean slipped around him and found the door hidden in the wall.

The hallway it led down to left him with a chill. It was like a never-ending prank hallway from a fake haunted house attraction or a low budget horror film.

The only problem was that it was real. The lighting wasn't meant to trick his eyes. The sounds from behind the doors weren't faked. He knew, then, that he needed to get the slaves out of that place. He needed to find Sam, first, though. No matter how much his self-sacrificing brother would have insisted upon waiting until the other kids were taken care of before him, Dean refused to make that trade. Never again would he put the lives of strange kids before that of his own brother.

He realized quickly that the numbers on the doors weren't in any particular order (after barging into a few and startling away customers that he wished he had a gun to kill who left him with new images for his nightmares and shook the promise of his refusal to take a minute and help them before heading to Sam) and seemed random at first. Then, it clicked. Each number was composed of five numbers.

14710, tattooed on the arm of the man who pulled Sam out of a burning building. Five numbers long.

These were slave numbers.

That would have disturbed him a lot more, if it didn't also give him a better idea of what he was looking for. He didn't need to kick down every door, just look for the one labeled '18166'. Sam's number.

He stalked the hall, twisting his neck so quickly to look between doors he nearly gave himself whiplash once or twice.

Then, he turned around and repeated the process. He looked at every single door. He looked at all of them twice, but one thing was becoming more clear than he would have liked.

Sam's number wasn't there.

"Shit, shit, shit," Dean mumbled under his breath.

The guard would probably wake up soon enough. Dean knew that he needed to get out of the hidden hallway before that happened and the guard could call in back-up, but he also knew that there were over a dozen slaves living in Hell behind those doors.

He made his decision and left the hallway to find his dad.

"I found the place, but Sam's not here," Dean said.

John cursed and started to turn away, but Dean grabbed his arm. "Dad," he said. "We have to do _something_. Some of those slaves are just kids. We have to get them out of here."

"We have to find Sam, Dean. I know you want to help them. _I_ want to help them, but it's going to take too much time and it's not exactly like we could sneak them out unseen. This place is packed."

"Call the emergency line," Dean said. "I don't think it's '911' here, but they have to have something. We can get the police here and let them take care of it."

 _Just like we should have let them take care of the missing kids in Massachusetts a lifetime ago._

"I mean," Dean added. "We know where Sam is now. He has to be at the other club. We can get the police here, show them the hallway, then head over there. If it's closed, we'll pick the lock or something."

John sighed, looking world-weary and an extra year older for each day Sam had been gone.

* * *

It was a tough decision on both of them to delay getting to Sam, but Dean knew that he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he left them after seeing them… like _that_. He hadn't needed to mention the specifics to his dad, assumed his dad already knew.

It ended up being a decision Dean regretted, and then hated himself for regretting.

They got one of the clubbers to call emergency services with the excuse that Caleb got mugged in the alley nearby. It was a thin lie, but the woman was too drunk to question it and helped out. Dean was just glad that she knew English, and made a mental note that learning another language might not be the worst idea (a language other than Latin).

Unfortunately, after getting the kids out, there were too many questions for Dean and John. So many, that they were dragged to the police station. Not quite at criminal status, but not cleared of suspicion either.

John had found the time to tell Caleb to round up some guns because they'd be going after Sam the second they got out of the station.

Dean wanted to pound his head against the little metal table in front of him. The officer asked the same series of questions over and over in broken English.

Dean expected it, or he should have, but his judgment had been clouded by the need to both save the slaves at that club and then rush to bust Sam out. He didn't stop and think about the consequences of calling the police and sticking around to show them the hidden hallway in the club.

He imagined that John got out after just a few questions and wished that he could've told him to go on and get Sam without him. But a selfish part of him didn't want John and Caleb to be the only ones there. Dean wanted to be the one to get Sam out of his slavery. Dean _needed_ to be the one who got him out.

It was only fair since he got Sam into it.

They kept him at the station for hours, even long after the sun rose, and all Dean could do was sit and watch the analog clock on the wall tick off every second so slowly, reminding him that he was letting time waste away when Sam needed him a month ago.

Dean could tell from the way they looked at him that they wanted him to be their criminal. They wanted to toss him into jail, because being in the right place at the right time to save some kids was too suspicious.

They could think whatever they wanted about him, as long as they let him go before the sunset again. As long as he could get to Sam before the club reopened and he could become a victim before Dean got there.

* * *

Sam felt like he was living in a dream that kept changing every time he got used to it. Every time he thought he learned its nonsensical rules, they changed and he couldn't keep up.

It would only be a matter of time before the music came back and he was trapped in darkness again. Sometimes chilled. Sometimes too warm.

There were a lot of bits of memories trying to force themselves to the forefront of his mind, but he couldn't make any sense of them.

More drugs were forced into his mouth. He didn't even remember seeing a person in his room to do it, but the feel of them on his tongue and the way the missing section in the middle felt more prominent than the rest of the tablets.

He wasn't sure what they were, but it seemed like too much. Maybe they were going to get what use they could out of him while they overdosed him slowly.

His room was dark and the music was back before he realized that time passed. His arms were high over his head, and each pull to move them down was met by resistance and a metallic rattling sound.

He wasn't sure when he last ate, but vaguely remembers someone pouring water into his mouth one sip at a time. It didn't matter, though. He wasn't all that hungry lately anyway.

He wasn't sure what made him look towards the door, but he knew that someone was in the room with him already, he felt their hands on him and the weight keeping him down no matter how much he feebly struggled with uncooperative limbs, so it shouldn't have opened.

But it did. The door swung open.

* * *

Dean was released from the police station way too late for his tastes, but he didn't dare to ask them for a ride to the other branch of the exact same club he busted in the middle of the night. Somehow, he didn't see that going over well. He didn't want them to even think about the fact that the club had another location in the same city. The last thing he needed was for them to be involved again and try to keep him separated from Sam.

He met up with John and Caleb, both looking more than ready to finally be done with the events of the past month. Everything led to that night, since they would not be making it before sunset to the other club, courtesy of the justice system.

Caleb handed him a pistol, and it was more than he could ask for. With a gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans, he felt ready to put a bullet between the eyes of anyone who would dare to keep him from Sam that night. He didn't care how Caleb got a hold of it.

They headed out, finding the club a little easier, but still arriving after nightfall because of the long walk (buses weren't happy to take credit cards, real or fake) and their difficulties navigating in a foreign country.

It was abuzz with the same atmosphere of light-hearted, ignorant party-goers as the last one had been.

Dean knew exactly where to go this time, and John and Caleb stood around the door on the other side after Dean couldn't promise that there would not be gunshots that might draw attention from the people orchestrating it all.

He had the gun from Caleb in his hands now, its weight giving him the feeling of security that a favorite blanket gave a child.

He passed an open door, the inside of the room behind it painted black with the obvious markings of a fire. He didn't know what happened there, and didn't care at the moment, because there was no number on the door. All he needed was to see Sam's number.

"18166," he mumbled to himself under his breath. "18166."

He finally found the door he wanted near the end of the hallway on the left.

18166.

He took a deep breath to steady his hands and pushed the door open.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** And it's the reunion you've all been wai-Oh, wait. No, it's not. That's a cliffhanger. Stay tuned for next chapter to find out what Dean sees behind Door Number 18166!

In the meantime, thank you so much to everyone who reads, reviews, follows, and favorites. The support for this story has been amazing and really helped me crank through some tough chapters. Take a second to leave a review and let me know how I'm doing in these last few chapters!

Side note: Sam's memories of sensitive topics are going to be fairly vague for now, but might resurface clearer in the sequel. Again, I will do my best with the warnings at the beginning of each chapter.


	15. Another New Day

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Non-explicit sexual assault (first handful of paragraphs, skip to paragraph 11-ish if you wish) and implications of a sexual nature. Mentions of drugs and drug use. All medical information was gathered via Google. I am not a doctor, nor do I work in the medical field.

* * *

Dean froze after he opened the door and the light in the hallway illuminated the scene before him. Those were Sam's eyes looking over at him, neon lights of his room reflected in them, but they weren't bright in the way he remembered. There was a distance in them. A fogginess that Dean knew wasn't natural. He'd seen Sam on medication before on hunts gone wrong. He knew the signs of detached confusion of a drugged Sam.

But his attention was drawn to the fact that there was a man _on top_ of Sam. Added to the fact that the hem of Sam's shirt was pushed up to his armpits revealing his chest and stomach. And the fact that his wrists were chained to the bed high over his head. _And_ that the man, who now looked at Dean like a deer caught in headlights, had had his mouth on Sam's just a second ago.

Maybe the worst of it all, was that Dean saw that one of the man's hands was in Sam's boxers.

All the hesitance and anxiety surrounding finding Sam that plagued Dean minutes before was replaced with white-hot rage.

He had his gun trained on the man. "Get your fucking hands off of him," Dean said.

He didn't know if the man understood a word he said, but the tone and gun were probably enough for him to get the hint if not.

He scrambled off and away from Sam, glancing at the half of his clothes scattered on the floor like he was trying to decide between grabbing them or just making a run for it.

He decided on the latter, and tried to get past Dean.

Dean had a bullet in his head before he could take more than a handful of steps. Maybe Sam didn't need to see a man killed right in front of him, but Dean wasn't sure that Sam was able to comprehend too much at the moment.

He tucked his gun away and stepped around the man's body to Sam, pulling his shirt back down before anything else.

He took out his lock-pick and set to work on the chains that kept Sam bound to the bed, rusted and archaic like they belonged in the Middle Ages. Those features combined made it take that much longer for Dean to pick the lock in the limited light from the hallway and neon signs of the room.

He knew Sam's eyes were on him as he worked. They tracked him, but he couldn't find any indication that Sam was actually seeing him.

He didn't care if the sound of a gunshot drew attention. He trusted in his dad and Caleb to keep anyone from getting to him and Sam.

It took a few minutes to get Sam's wrists freed, and Dean wanted to give him reassurances, but he was at a loss of what to say while he worked. The scene he walked in on was still shocking his mind into a blank, and his head was starting to hurt from the strong scent of incense.

But Dean was always more of a man of actions, so he continued to act like he was composed and let Sam slowly bring his arms down of his own accord while he shrugged out of his leather jacket. Sam was too out of it to help Dean even if he asked, but his limbs were compliant as Dean threaded them through the sleeves of his jacket and pulled it together over Sam's chest.

"Let's get you covered up, huh?" Dean asked.

He didn't expect an answer and moved on to pulling the top blanket of the bed from where its edges were tucked under the mattress. It wasn't his first choice, but it was his only choice and he wrapped it around Sam as best as he could.

There wasn't time to check Sam over for injuries, and as long as he was alive they could deal with the injuries in a safer place. He still wasn't about to even ask Sam if he could walk. He wasn't sure that Sam would understand a word said to him while in his current state.

So Dean slipped an arm under Sam's knees and one behind his back—being mindful of the knowledge that Sam's back could still be in bad shape from being whipped—and lifted Sam up. He hoped that the blanket around him would be warm enough. He hoped that it would offer enough padding for his wounds that Dean carrying him wouldn't aggravate them too much.

He hoped that Sam wouldn't remember any of his time there.

Sam was lighter than he should have been and still smaller than average, so carrying him was nothing to Dean.

"Gonna get you out of here, Sammy," Dean said as he left the room. "I'm not gonna let anyone else hurt you again, okay?"

He glanced down at Sam between every step, but Sam's eyes were slowly closing and his head lolling towards Dean's shoulder. Both of which Dean was fine with. He thought that he might need the physical contact as much as Sam, or more than. After so long being separated, the weight of his brother in his arms was a welcome reminder that they were together again.

"Go ahead and close your eyes, Sammy," Dean said. "You can rest now. I'm right here."

Sam's eyes did shut, but one of his hands found its way out of the haphazardly wrapped blanket around him and fumbled for a minute before latching onto Dean's shirt with a loose fist.

Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat, and surprised himself when his words came out clear and calm. "That's it, Sammy," he said. "Just hold onto me. I'm right here now, and I'm not leaving you."

He rushed up to meet John and Caleb, who were holding their own against the security guards and other men he assumed must work for Liu and heard the gunshot. Hell, maybe there had been surveillance cameras that Dean hadn't noticed that tipped them off. Liu probably spent too much money to want his slaves to go missing, and was probably willing to spend that extra amount on anything he could to prevent it.

Either way, Caleb gave John a quick nod and John moved to usher Dean with Sam out of the club.

"He's pretty out of it, Dad," Dean said as they left. "I didn't get the chance to look him over, but I could tell that he wasn't entirely _there_. I don't even know if he was really seeing me. His eyes followed me, sure, but there wasn't anything in them. I'm worried."

John led them out of the club and down two blocks farther before stopping to look at Sam. "14710 mentioned whipping, and if he was that out of it, drugs might be involved," he said. "I'm not happy with it, but I think we might have to take him to the hospital. We don't know what we're dealing with, and I'm not willing to be taking risks with Sam's health right now."

Dean held Sam a little closer as they set out towards the hospital, comforted by the soft breaths against his neck as Sam's head rested against his shoulder. John called Caleb and left a voicemail to let him know they were out now and where they were headed so Caleb could meet back up with them once he made his own great escape out of the club.

Dean realized that he would never be able to thank Caleb properly for taking a month to hunt around America, Hong Kong, and China for Sam, and then staying behind at the club with Liu's workers so they could get out safely. And he never asked them for anything in return.

For how much evil he saw outside of the supernatural world in the past month, Caleb reminded him that true good existed, too.

* * *

The looks from the medical personnel at the hospital left Dean thinking that this wasn't the first time a slave escaped or was rescued and brought to them.

They brought over staff members who knew English to work with them and ask all of the routine questions, even if they suspected the answer with the mix of sympathy and pity on their faces.

They said that the police would likely be interested in talking to them, and that they _did_ have to report everything to the police despite the protests from Dean and John.

And then they were gone, and Sam was back in a different room with them being examined, tested, and treated without his family beside him.

Dean stayed standing, about to pace, but the rush of adrenaline that kept him going for the entirety of that day and night left him now that Sam was safe. What didn't leave him were the memories of how he found Sam, and he promptly dashed to the nearest bathroom and threw up.

* * *

It felt like days passed before someone came out to talk to them about Sam. Caleb showed up in the middle of their wait, looking a little worse for wear, but denying any medical attention. Just a couple scratches and bruises, he told them. No big deal.

Sam's doctor came out to talk to them. A small woman with streaks of grey in her hair, age lines on her face, and a no-nonsense attitude. She spoke English clearly, despite her accent. Something Dean was thankful for since he wasn't great at understanding any thick accents.

John nudged Dean forward. "Why don't you go on ahead with Caleb and keep an eye on Sammy?" he suggested. "I can fill you in later on what the doctor says."

Dean opened his mouth to protest that he deserved to know Sam's condition, but Caleb grabbed his elbow and pulled him down the hall after the doctor gave him the room number.

Once they were out of hearing range, Dean pulled away from Caleb.

"I deserve to hear what the doctor has to say, Caleb," he said. "I'm the one who… This is all my fault."

"Maybe it's just something John needs to do alone, Dean," Caleb said. "He blames himself for leaving you two alone when he knew what was going on so close. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if he blamed me, too, for dragging all of you over to give me a hand."

"Don't be stupid, Caleb. It wasn't your fault. You didn't know."

"Neither did you."

"No," Dean admitted, "but I should have. Dad gave me an order, and I disobeyed it. Look what happened."

"Then, you'll have to make it up to Sam," Caleb said.

Dean huffed out a humorless laugh. "If he'll even let me with everything he's been through."

"He knows that you would never get him hurt intentionally. Everyone who's ever met the two of you would know that."

"Could be different this time," Dean said. He couldn't get the image of Sam at the club out of his head, and he had no idea how someone recovers from that. He didn't even experience it personally, yet he knew it would always be something that haunted him.

"Doesn't mean it will be."

Sam looked awful, and Dean wondered if he'd have to make a stop in the attached bathroom again. He wasn't sure his stomach had anything left in it to bring back up, but that didn't stop it from feeling like it was on the verge of revolting.

Sam laid on his side, his clothes exchanged for a set of plain scrubs. An oxygen masked covered his nose and mouth, fogging up and clearing in sync in with his breaths. His visible wrist atop the blanket was wrapped in fresh, snow white bandages. An IV in the back of his hand delivered something clear into him.

Dean moved closer and took a seat on the side of the room towards which Sam faced. From there, he saw Sam's right arm. That wrist was wrapped like the other one, but Dean could see ink numbers peeking out of the bandage.

Dean watched Caleb lean over Sam and catch the tattoo by following Dean's line of sight. Then he watched as Caleb carefully pulled up Sam's sleeve until a brand came into view.

Dean didn't know what it was supposed to symbolize, but it looked painful as hell and the last thing Sam needed were these permanent reminders on his skin of what happened.

Dean leaned back in his chair and ran a hand down his face. Caleb dropped into the other chair in the room, looking as lost as Dean felt.

Sam slept through it all as the picture of peace, but Dean figured that was the work of medication. Whether that medication was forced upon him in the club or given to him by the medical professionals at the hospital, Dean didn't know.

Sam probably needed the deep rest, but Dean wished that his skin wasn't so pale. He wished that he could erase the marks put on Sam.

He wished that he hadn't been the reason Sam was like this.

Sam stayed dead to the world while Dean fidgeted in his chair. He bounced his leg on the ball of his foot, up and down and up and down. He wondered if he should be closer to Sam. If he should hold his hand, or even just have his own on Sam's arm for a bit of comfort. But he was afraid of getting too close. He was afraid that the contact would be unwelcome to Sam, no matter how much _Dean_ needed the connection.

He reconsidered his decision to be where Sam faced. What if Sam woke up and Dean was the last person he wanted to see? Did he blame Dean as much as Dean blamed himself?

Would he ever be able to trust his big brother again? The same one who got him forced into slavery because he just had to go out for a drink or two? Because he couldn't leave one non-supernatural case alone?

The only thing that broke his train of thought was his father walking into the room. The stress of the past month caught up to him, making him look ready to fall over with the dark bags under his eyes, which had a new haunted quality in them. Dean wondered just what the doctor told John to leave him looking like that.

He wondered if he really wanted to know.

"What's the verdict?" Caleb asked. Able to get out the words that Dean couldn't.

John sighed, and Dean's stomach twisted into fresh knots. A sigh wasn't good.

"He'll live," John said. "Physically, the worst is the level of drugs they found in his blood. Traces of methamphetamine, probably from a couple days ago, but mostly benzodiazepines. It was high for someone his size. Close to overdose level, but the doctor said it's uncommon to die from an overdose of benzodiazepines, especially with hospital treatment. They have an oxygen mask on him because his oxygen was a little low, but the cannula wouldn't have stayed in place as well since he has to be on his side for now."

"His back's that bad?" Dean asked. He didn't want to think about the injuries that he couldn't see. What were the after effects of meth and benzodiazepines?

Dean would be needing access to a computer once they made it to Pastor Jim's.

"It's not going to be comfortable for him to be laying on it. Doctor said that the cuts were partially healed, but some spots had been reopened recently. The good thing is that there aren't any signs of infection. Other than that, they wrapped the cut on his leg and removed the collar from his neck, then applied ointment to the burns and wrapped them."

Dean hadn't noticed the bandages around Sam's neck. He'd been distracted by everything else, the more prominent signs that he suffered and was still suffering.

"They wrapped his wrists, the skin was a bit raw and bleeding in some spots. Signs of struggle, the doctor said," John continued. "They can't do anything for the brands on his shoulders."

"Brands?" Dean asked. "As in more than one?"

"One on each shoulder," John confirmed.

Dean was going to be sick. Or pass out. Both were reasonable options. He didn't even know where he was supposed to begin in helping Sam. Not when just hearing the description of his injuries hurt him, and he hadn't been the one to experience them. He hadn't felt the pain, but he would've given anything to have felt it instead of Sam.

"He'll be out of it for awhile as the drugs run through his system," John said. "They're giving him fluids, and will likely start giving him nutrients, too."

"And that's just physically," Dean said.

"Yeah," John said. "That's just physically."

* * *

Sam felt like shit, but at the same time he felt better than he had in a long time. A comfortable numb. Safe. He remembered meeting Dean's eyes as he burst into the room, but thought it was just a trick of his mind.

His eyelids were impossibly heavy, but he opened them to be greeted by hospital white and the guardrail of his bed blocking his view of anything else.

Something covered half of his face, but when he raised an arm to find out what, Dean was there. He grabbed Sam's hand midway.

"Oxygen mask, Sammy," he said. "Gotta leave it."

Dean gave him a half-hearted smile that looked at odds with the bone-deep sadness in his eyes.

It was strange hearing someone call him by his real name, or even nickname. How many times had he dreamt of this, only to convince himself that Dean wouldn't be able to find him? That he would be trapped in a life that wasn't a life at all.

But Dean came, and he heard the rumble of his dad's voice. John came, too.

"Dean, why don't you go get something to eat?" John asked. "I want to talk to Sam."

Dean looked at John like he grew a new head, and Sam almost smiled at the sight. He would have smiled, if his muscles weren't so heavy or if the weariness would leave him for only a moment.

Sam didn't know what Dean saw in John's face that made him back down and leave the room with a dozen glances back before he made it out of the door. Whatever it was, Sam didn't see it.

John took a deep breath, stood up, and moved so that he was partially leaning above Sam. He moved his hand like he wanted to brush Sam's hair away, but stopped like he remembered that his hair was too short now. "I'm so sorry for all of this, Sammy. I'm not sure if you even understand me right now, but if you do, I need to know something. The doctor… Did anybody… Sammy, were you…?"

John was never a man to be left searching for words, but Sam supposed that he never needed words like this before. It had never been an issue. Should never have been an issue.

But it became one, and John was left stumbling over half-finished questions while Sam understood what he was trying to ask. So Sam shook his head, then switched to a small, one-shoulder shrug. He really didn't know.

"You can't remember?" John asked.

Sam shook his head. He couldn't remember much more than unclear snippets, and he didn't know if that should be comforting or terrifying.

John nodded. He didn't look completely relieved, but he accepted the answer anyway with a certain amount of resignation. There was something else about his expression that Sam couldn't remember being there before, but his mind was still too fogged for him to figure out what that was.

"I didn't bring it up to Dean," he said.

Sam nodded this time. That he could agree with.

He wanted to stay awake a little longer, if only because he was scared that if he fell asleep here, he'd wake up and find that it was all just a dream. He was never rescued.

But his body had other plans, and John whispered soft encouragements for him to get some rest along with promises that he and Dean would still be there when he woke up again.

* * *

Dean kept his pace to an average walk as he went back to Sam's room. It took all of the willpower he had to keep from lingering outside of the door and eavesdropping on whatever his dad hadn't wanted him to hear. He just hoped that John said what he needed to say by the time Dean got back because he didn't plan on leaving again.

If Dean listened to his dad two hours ago to find a nearby motel with Caleb and get some rest, he wouldn't have been there when Sam woke up.

He stepped into a silent room, only to find that Sam was back asleep. Dean clenched his hands into fists, but kept his anger in check.

Sam didn't need to be woken up again, especially not by Dean yelling. Sam needed the rest.

And Dean had to do what was best for Sam. He should have always done what was best for Sam. He was fragile right now physically. Dean had no idea about his psychological status. Hell, 14710 couldn't remember his own name. That took years, but how much damage could a month do?

"What'd I miss?" Dean asked.

"Not much," John said. "I don't think he remembers much of what happened, and the doctor said that was a possibility with the drugs, but she mentioned his mind might deal with the trauma by repressing it. That, uh, happened with some of the other escaped slaves, she said."

"They just couldn't remember what they went through?" Dean asked.

That seemed bizarre, to go through that much trauma and not remember it. Yet he hoped that would be the case for Sam. He'd gladly carry the burden of the images in his mind of Liu's nightclub as long as Sam got to live in ignorance.

"They repressed the memories, but they don't always stay repressed."

"Oh," Dean said. He paused. "What about Liu?"

"You have no idea how much I want to hunt him down and gut him," John said.

"But."

"But Sam needs both of us here. I hate it, but we need to focus on getting Sam to Pastor Jim's. Getting him on the path to recovery."

"So we just let him walk," Dean said.

"We have to. For now," John said. "We'll keep an eye out. See if he goes to America for another auction and take care of him then."

Dean didn't reply to that, and John didn't offer any more on the subject. He understood the reasoning, but how many more kids could Liu hurt before their chance to kill him came along? How would Sam be able to sleep at night knowing that monster was still alive and well?

"Do you know when Sam will be discharged?"

"It'll be a couple of days, at least. He may not have officially been at the point of overdosing, but they still want to keep an eye on him."

Dean wanted to get Sam back to Jim's. He wanted him to be comfortable and safe, not trapped in yet another room. Even if this room was safe and clean. Even if antiseptic replaced the scent of incense and alcohol.

He wanted a lot, but Dean knew better than to expect that he would get any of it.

* * *

Caleb left the next morning with a promise that he would get John's truck and drive it to the Chicago airport for them. He knew Sam was safe and in good hands, so he wasn't needed there anymore.

It would be a six and a half hour drive from Chicago to Blue Earth, but they would stop if they needed to.

Dean didn't ask about getting the Impala back. He didn't feel that he deserved it back. He hadn't earned that privilege.

So he sat and watched over Sam while John took his turn in the motel room sleeping after the cops came to talk to them (he didn't hold out much hope that they would be arresting Liu anytime soon, more likely they'd file the report and pretend it never happened), amazed that his dad trusted him to be solely responsible for looking after Sam again, even if it was just at the hospital.

A nurse came in earlier to change Sam's bandages, and Dean's rage towards Davies and Liu returned in full force when he saw the lashing marks criss-crossing Sam's back. He wanted to hunt Liu down and whip him until he felt tenfold the pain Sam did. He wished he could resurrect Davies just to kill him again.

Sam woke up a few times through the day, but never for very long. Just long enough to roll onto his other side, avoiding laying on his back despite not knowing of the doctor's orders to do just that.

So Dean waited, until he finally saw Sam's eyes open again. He immediately put himself in Sam's field of vision.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said. "You need me to press your call button for anything?"

Dean didn't know what else to ask. Sam had yet to speak, so he limited his questions to yes-or-no questions. Sam was far from okay, so he skipped that series of questions.

Sam wasn't awake long enough to eat anything, so he received IV nutrients. But Dean noticed how thin Sam was now, and knew that the nutrients could only do so much.

Sam needed calorie laden food to put meat back on his bones, but he probably wouldn't be able to keep down too much for awhile.

If Dean still had difficulties keeping his food down, he couldn't expect Sam to.

Sam shook his head.

At least he was aware enough to respond.

"No pain?"

Sam shook his head again.

Dean gave him a small smile. Sam wasn't in pain, and that was always a good thing.

"You want me to turn the TV on?" Dean asked. "Wasn't sure if it'd bother you, and you need the rest, dude."

Sam nodded at that, so Dean tried to find something that Sam might like watching.

He settled on some cartoons that he couldn't understand, but he could keep up with what was going on just through the animation. Sam wouldn't be awake for long, he knew that.

But sitting there with Sam and watching some TV almost felt normal. It reminded him that Sam was really there, and he might not be in perfect condition, but he was alive. As long as Sam was alive, Dean could deal with the trauma and the recovery. He could give Sam all of the help he had to offer.

Sam fell asleep within minutes, and Dean was content to mute the TV and watch it in silence. He moved his chair a little closer to Sam and let his arm rest on his bed, encouraged by the fact that Sam hadn't shied away from him yet or done anything to indicate he didn't want Dean by him. His arm wasn't close enough to be touching Sam, but it was close enough that in case Sam woke up and wanted the contact, he barely had to move for it.

It was the first time that he felt confident that he would be able to handle anything thrown his way while helping Sam heal.

It was the first time he let his tears fall for both what he almost lost, and what he failed to prevent.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Rescued at last with one chapter to go, but Sam has a long recovery ahead and Dean has some trauma of his own to deal with. If anyone would like to mention things they hope the sequel includes, now would be a good time. I have a list of what I want to include, but I'm open to considering other ideas also. Along those lines, would you prefer the sequel be of a slow or fast pace? Honestly, I have it as slower pace, since it's acting like a very extended epilogue in a way.

Regardless, thanks to all of you who read, follow, favorite, and review! I'm glad that you're enjoying the story. Please take a second to leave a review before you go.


	16. Another Step Backwards

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

 **Warnings:** Nothing really? Not this time, I don't think.

* * *

Dean ached. Spending the majority of three days in a hospital chair would do that to anyone, but he refused to leave Sam's side for a place more comfortable.

Sam, who had yet to speak a word despite being able to stay awake for longer stretches of time. When Dean thought about it, he hadn't heard any sounds at all from Sam since finding him.

He had more time now to notice little things like that, when they weren't on a timetable to save Sam (and he wondered if he had really saved Sam, or if he was already too broken by the time they arrived). Unfortunately, that meant having to face the reality that he didn't know what Sam needed from him. He no longer had a single objective to obsessively chase, just a vague notion of 'recovery' and whatever that entailed.

Sam was asleep, barely. Without pharmaceutical help (and he refused any pills offered to him with vehement shakes of his head and fear in his eyes), his sleep became erratic and overloaded with nightmares. Yet even amidst the worst dreams his subconsciousness threw at him, he never once made a sound. He thrashed and thrashed until Dean had to hold him down to prevent him from hurting himself while he tried to wake him up with soft assurances that it was only a nightmare, but he would just stare at Dean when he woke up with a look of pure terror and never said a word. Not even a scream. A whimper. A whine. A cry.

Dean would've taken anything at that point. Any sign that Sam even still had the ability to produce sound, which the doctor insisted that he did. He just wasn't using it.

And that scared Dean. He wondered if the electrical burns on Sam's neck were part of it, but he had the feeling that he would never hear the full story of what Sam went through since that night Dean left him alone at the motel.

And Sam would never know how many times Dean wished he could go back and change it all.

The only bright side so far was that they could take Sam out of the hospital that afternoon. His back was healed enough that it was still uncomfortable when Sam laid on it, but the wounds weren't reopening regularly. The cut on his leg was healing nicely. Most importantly, the majority of drugs had made their way out of his system and there wasn't any sign of infection.

The bad part was that Sam had yet to eat anything. He never even tried to take a bite of any of the meals brought to him. The doctor still wasn't happy, even if John felt confident enough that he could keep his son alive despite his refusal to do something as basic as eat. She was unhappy with the discharge, but backed down and reluctantly gave in to John's request.

Or the doctor was able to realize that John would take Sam out of the hospital with or without her permission.

He ran a hand down his face, something he'd done dozens of times since taking up residence in that hospital chair. As though it would wipe away the weariness. As though it could give him an idea of what he was supposed to be doing.

He met Sam's eyes then, open and semi-aware. Sometimes, even when his eyes were open, Sam didn't really seem awake. It was like he wasn't seeing where he was. He was miles away in his own mind, and Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know where, exactly, Sam's mind took him when he mentally checked-out.

"Sammy?"

Sam's eyes moved to look at Dean, slow and distant.

"Hey," Dean said, he leaned forward and kept his voice soft (trying to convince himself that he wasn't talking to Sam like he was a scared animal who'd been cornered). "Ready to get out of here later?"

Sam's eyes drifted from him to focus on the tattoo on his arm. 18166. If Dean thought he might get an answer, he knew he wouldn't anymore. When Sam caught sight of his number, he was lost again.

Dean hated it. He wished he could cut the damn thing off, but it meant hurting Sam. Lose-lose situations were becoming too common of a theme in his life. Was he supposed to hurt Sam to help Sam? How was he supposed to get rid of all the little physical reminders that Sam carried on his skin?

Why wasn't anyone telling him how to fix everything? Why wasn't anyone telling him how to fix _anything?_

"That's okay, Sammy," he said, clearing his throat and setting his own focus on the screen of the muted TV, if only to avoid seeing Sam lost in the darkness of his own mind. "You can talk when you feel up to it."

* * *

John came back into the room nearly an hour later with a couple of bags in hand. "Got you some clothes to wear on the way back, Sam," he said, raising up one of the bags. "Just some basics, but you'll have your own things back soon enough."

John raised the other bag, then, and said, "This one is filled with the good stuff. Pain killers. Sleeping pills. Some ointment for the burns. The works."

Sam didn't make any indications that he heard a word that John said. His eyes were turned in that general direction, but Dean didn't think that they were seeing John. He didn't think that Sam was seeing the hospital room at all.

"They just gave Sam whatever they thought he'd need?" Dean asked. "That's a bit unusual."

John shrugged and set the bags on a chair. "None of the staff is exactly happy knowing what Liu has going on in the city, so they try to give escaped slaves the best treatment they can and get them far away from Liu."

"Why can't they get him arrested or something?"

"Probably has the right people in his pocket to make any charges against him disappear. He wouldn't be the first person."

"Can we just get out of here?" Dean asked.

"Yeah." John opened up the bag of clothes and set them on the bed by Sam, piece by piece. "You need any help changing, Sam?"

Dean saw him staring at the tattoo on his arm again, so he stood and covered it with his hand. He wasn't sure if Sam would freak out at the physical contact, but to his relief it simply drew his attention to Dean.

"Dad got you some new clothes so we can get you to Jim's. Do you need help changing?" he asked. He didn't think that Sam was physically incapable of getting himself dressed (it might hurt a little, but it wouldn't be anything serious), but he also didn't know if Sam would be able to stay focused on a single task and not drift back into his thoughts.

Still, Dean wanted to offer him a little bit of independence after he had so much taken from him. If that meant sitting outside of the room for five minutes to give him a chance to change his own clothes, so be it.

Sam shook his head.

So Dean left the room and leaned against the closed door. "Five minutes," he said to John. "I don't want to leave him alone any longer than that."

John just nodded. He probably didn't want to leave Sam alone at all, and Dean felt the same. The problem was knowing what Sam needed now, especially since it was becoming clear that he wasn't about to tell them exactly what it was he needed any time soon.

So Dean was left trapped in the world's worst guessing game with stakes too high for his liking.

Dean spent the time tapping his foot and staring at his watch. Five minutes felt more like five hours, but it passed eventually and he stormed back into Sam's room. Right as the door opened, the image of a horribly empty motel room flashed in his head. He shook it away, but the lingering fear of seeing a similar image refused to leave.

Instead, he saw Sam sitting up, having managed to get sweatpants and a t-shirt on, but struggling with his socks. His hands trembled too hard, and Dean could see the rising frustration in Sam.

It shouldn't have, but that made him glad. Some things, at least, hadn't changed. Sam wasn't emotionally emptied. Dean would gladly take frustration over the flashes of terror and long bouts of nothingness.

Dean moved closer and took the socks from Sam. "You did most of it, Sam. Just let me help you out with the rest," he said.

He couldn't remember the last time he had to help Sam put socks, shoes, or a sweatshirt on, but he didn't think that Sam had been so complacent when Dean had to help him as a child. He wasn't trying to squirm away or insist that he could do it himself. He just sat and stared.

Dean looked at his dad and saw the same concern he felt mirrored in his dad's eyes. "Are you sure it's okay for us to be taking him out of here?" he asked.

John sighed. "It wouldn't be my first option, but I have a bad feeling about staying here too long."

"Yeah?" Dean asked. "Are you going to tell me about this bad feeling this time?"

John glared at Dean, and Dean wished he kept his mouth shut. He was just as much to blame as John was. Hell, he deserved more blame than John did. He deserved all of it.

"I can't imagine that someone would be happy with losing a source of income. Especially not someone who apparently has all the right people, and thankfully not the hospital staff among them, in his pocket and enough money to make it speak," John said.

Dean finished tying Sam's shoes and pulled the sleeve of Sam's sweatshirt down over the tattoo on his arm, removing it from his sight. How had things gotten so bad that Sam, who had been on a fierce independent streak for years, now needed Dean's help to do such simple things?

Not that he minded helping out Sam. It was the least of what he owed him. What bothered him was the way Sam just went along with it, like he wasn't there inside. His body was alive, yet his eyes were anything but.

* * *

Sam was in motion, but it wasn't him moving. It couldn't be. The body that Dean helped transfer into a wheelchair and tucked a pillow behind didn't belong to him. He was just a spectator.

The wounds though, those were his. They still burned and stung like they were fresh, but he knew that they were healing. He saw the skin starting to look a little healthier. A little more normal. The pain wasn't supposed to be real, but it felt more real than anything since the minute he was taken.

Dean pulled his sleeve over the tattoo on his arm, but when Sam glanced down at it laid over his lap, he could see the numbers all the same.

18166.

18166.

They burned neon through the fabric of his sleeve. Each time he read them, the shreds of identity that Dean and his dad brought back by calling him 'Sam' or 'Sammy' were flayed away again.

Dean pushed him through the halls, slow and careful.

He heard them talking sometimes, Dean and his dad. It was usually about him, and he understood that part. He might not have understood the words perfectly—they didn't always register in his mind—but he caught the meaning behind them.

They were leaving the hospital. That was okay. He was tired of seeing the pitying faces of nurses and doctors who knew why he was there.

They were going to Pastor Jim's, he thought. Dean and his dad might have mentioned it once or twice. That was… He didn't know if that was okay. He didn't want Jim to know what he went through.

He didn't want to remember it, and just the memories of being taken, sold, and forced into labor were enough. He was glad he didn't remember much from Liu's club, but he felt what he repressed at the edges of his mind.

He also felt the fire inside of him, a constant presence that demanded use. He couldn't use it, not around Dean or John. They could never know about it, that much he was certain of. It was the only thing that was clear in his mind.

The problem was that he _wanted_ to use it. He felt he _needed_ to use it. He needed the rush of strength it brought him. But it also reminded him of the monster the traffickers made him into, and he didn't need his family to see that.

Instead, he wanted to go back to sleep, fall back into the bliss of unconsciousness. The nightmares faded when he woke up, so he wasn't afraid to face them in his sleep. No matter how shaken Dean looked when he hovered over him as he opened his eyes.

The doctors and nurses offered him sleeping pills and pain pills when they noticed that he wasn't sleeping well any more, not as the drugs keeping him drowsy left his body, but he couldn't bring himself to accept them. He shook his head, and when they offered with more force, tried to gently coerce him into swallowing them, he just shook his head more vehemently.

His main doctor (or the one he saw the most at least) stopped them as they left. She begged John to reconsider taking Sam this soon, but backed down at John's reasoning. She promised to call a cab and that the staff would pay the fare to get Sam safely out. As far away from Liu as any of them could get him, but he feared that Liu had already buried too deep within him.

They waited in the hospital's lobby for the cab, Dean crouched next to him and babbling off an endless stream of directionless, one-sided conversation. He kept his voice low and soft, the way he used to talk when Sam was a kid who woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare.

The way he still talked when Sam woke up from nightmares or, in this case, lived them.

Sam found the energy to turn his head to meet Dean's eyes, and he saw the hope bloom in them.

But he also saw the guilt that threatened to overflow from them.

"Sammy, you with me?" he asked.

Sam's throat tightened underneath the snowy bandages covering it, and his words died before ever reaching his mouth. He just wanted to be able to tell Dean that he didn't blame him for anything that happened.

Dean waited, looking like the absolute destruction or reconstruction of his world hinged on what Sam did next.

Sam wondered if that was worse than the pity from everyone else.

He had to look away from Dean. He didn't want to see the pain his inability to do something as simple as speak would cause his brother.

Dean gave the top of his shoulder a light pat, avoiding anywhere close to the brand, and said, "Maybe next time."

In a way, that hurt more. The way that Dean was able to be so patient about his behavior. How he just accepted that Sam was shutting down from the inside.

He appreciated the constant presence of his brother on the other hand. He let Dean help him into the cab and fuss with the pillow to make him comfortable.

His dad sat on the other side, keeping his distance, but never too far away that he wouldn't be there to help.

It was strange to be treated like such a child again. As the cab sped over bumps that left Sam a little more sore than he would like to admit (and thinking again that his dad should have let him stay at the hospital a little longer like the doctor wanted), Dean did what he could to try and make the trip a little less painful for Sam. It ended with Sam half-laying on Dean's lap with the pillow doing what it could to help keep Sam's back from being jostled around too much.

And then he was in the car with Liu again, being driven to a nightclub while Liu stroked his head and had him lay on his lap. The smell of Liu's cologne choked him, and he gagged.

"Sammy, you okay?" Dean asked.

"Sammy?" John added in his own concerned voice.

Sam shook his head. Okay was something he hadn't been in a long, long time now.

Dean moved to run his hand over Sam's shortened hair, but Sam flinched away and Dean's hand froze in the air. Sam didn't know what his brother thought about his action, if he added another dollop of guilt to the already insurmountable amount.

He put his hand to rest on Sam's shoulder, above the mostly healed brand like he was afraid to touch it, and settled on whispering to Sam, "You're okay. We're gonna take you home. You'll be fine."

Sam closed his eyes and let Dean continue his litany of reassurances as they went to the airport, trying to keep his memories at bay and holding on to the sound of Dean's voice to keep him grounded.

* * *

They managed to board the plane, Dean having to nearly carry Sam through the airport in his weak state. How long had it been since the kid walked without injuries inhibiting him or disaster pushing him forwards? How long had it been since the kid had a decent meal?

There were so many questions he had that were left unanswered, but he needed the answers if he wanted to know where to start repairing Sam. The cab ride over was proof enough that there were wounds running deeper than either Dean or John originally believed.

And Dean was scared to believe that what they witnessed from Sam earlier was just the surface.

He was fine one minute, then he was choking on nothing. Dean remembered the oxygen mask that covered Sam's face for far too long (in his opinion) in the hospital. He hoped that Sam's problem was something psychological instead of something physical. He wouldn't have been able to fix Sam's problem regardless, but if it was psychological, Sam would be able to survive it easier.

He would say that maybe God was listening and answered a prayer for once, but he wasn't much of a believer anymore.

A just god would never have let someone as innocent as Sam be hurt so badly. A caring god would never have ignored all of those kids suffering in the factories and nightclubs.

Which led Dean to the conclusion that if there were a god or some higher power, they no longer gave any shits about humanity.

Sam sat between him and John on the plane, looking dreadfully pale and shaky. Dean brought the pillow he took from the hospital on board and had it cushioning Sam's back, but nothing seemed to alleviate his source of anxiety. Dean knew it had to be something involving Sam's plane ride out of America. And that meant it was just another thing he didn't know how to fix.

Security hadn't been very impressed when the pillow and Sam's bag of prescriptions and bandages were the only pieces of luggage they had, but as long as they got to go through and get on a plane to safety, he didn't care.

John left minutes ago and finally returned with a mini bottle of water Dean imagined he managed to get from the flight attendants. With Dean's help, they coaxed Sam into drinking some of it, his trembling hands spilling more on the ground than into his mouth.

But he drank. As long as he got to hold the bottle, as long as he had that small bit of control, he willingly took sips.

And then he was out, slumped against Dean in his seat.

Dean put his arm around Sam's shoulders. "You put sleeping pills in his water, didn't you?" he asked.

John nodded, not an ounce of guilt to be found. "You saw him in the car. It's easier this way."

"I just wish it wasn't."

"I know," John said. "I do, too."

They saved Sam. He was supposed to be okay, but he wasn't. He was just a ghost of who he used to be.

Dean felt the solidity of his brother sitting next to him and heard his soft breaths. This was what he wanted. It was what he searched for all month.

The plane took off and Dean was left feeling that even though their hunt for Sam was successful, it was a Pyrrhic victory.

* * *

When they landed in Chicago, Dean let out a sigh of relief. He hated flying, he knew that very clearly now with how many planes he'd been on recently. He almost envied Sam for having been asleep through the majority of the flight, and he had to remind himself that Sam's sleep had not been natural.

Caleb picked them up in John's truck at the airport, and Sam managed to stay barely conscious enough to be dragged through and helped into the backseat.

Dean kept Sam sitting up, but leaning against him. He wasn't sure what made him freak out in the last car ride, but he didn't want a repeat of it.

"Did you give him more sleeping pills?" Dean asked. If John hadn't, he was going to start panicking. They didn't normally last this long.

"Crushed them up into two small bottles of water," John said. "Got him to drink more during the flight and a little back at the airport while you were in the restroom. It's easier when he's still half-asleep."

"Is that safe? How many did you crush up?" Dean asked.

He put his fingertips against Sam's neck and felt his pulse, glad to find it slower with sleep, but not abnormal.

"It's safer than having his mind put him back God knows where and freaking him out."

"It's that bad?" Caleb asked.

"Worse," Dean said. "Once the drugs starting leaving his system, he started having thrashing nightmares. He refused to take any pills, which is why Dad had to crush them up into water. He hasn't said a single word or made a single sound since waking up. It's like there's no one home inside his head most times, and when there is, it's only for a second and he shuts down again."

Dean hadn't meant to say that much, even if Caleb deserved to know it all. Even if Caleb deserved more than they could ever give him. But he couldn't stop listing off things that were wrong with Sam in an increasingly desperate voice, and he was sure that he didn't even know the full list (and he still couldn't allow himself to think about what he saw in the club).

"If we stayed too much longer, they probably would have wanted to move him to the psych ward," John said. "Or we risked Liu trying to find him."

"Should we take him to a hospital out by Jim?" Caleb asked. "I can call him up and ask where the closest one to him is."

John shook his head. "Let's just get him to Jim's and go from there. I don't think being trapped in another room is what he needs. Hospital or not."

"You really think we can handle this?" Caleb asked.

John laughed under his breath. Humorless. "I have to believe that we can. We got him in this mess to begin with."

The rest of the ride to Blue Earth was mostly silent, but Dean didn't mind the only sound being the steady breaths of Sam. He pulled him a little closer, careful not to press down on any of his injuries, and hoped that it would be enough for now because he didn't know how else he could help Sam.

* * *

Jim had the extra room Sam and Dean slept in as children set up for them by the time they got there. He watched from the side as Dean got Sam settled in one of the beds. He didn't say anything, but Dean understood what he thought just with a glance at him. He thought it wasn't fair. He thought Sam didn't deserve this.

He had all the same thoughts that Dean did, except for the blame. Dean wanted him to yell at him. He wanted John and Caleb to yell at him. Tell him how he screwed up. Tell him to look at what his mistakes did to Sam. He wanted them to solidify the guilt pooling inside of him. Punish him for not obeying orders. Punish him for not doing the most important job given to him: watch out for Sammy.

Instead, they treated him like he was as much of a victim as Sam.

He heard his dad call for him from the kitchen, so with a look over his shoulder at Sam to remind himself that he was still there, he left the room with the door open just a crack.

His dad sat at the kitchen table with Jim and Caleb, so Dean took an open seat.

He let John fill in Jim on what exactly happened since they asked him for help. Hearing it said aloud made it feel that much more real to Dean, and he did his best just to keep from throwing up. The details still made him sick, but he suspected that it was the knowledge that it all started with his poor decisions that pushed his stomach that much closer to the edge.

By the end of John's story (cold and calculating rehash of events, he kept the emotions locked away. This was too personal.), they were all left at the table with the same unspoken question lingering in the air.

Where the hell were they supposed to begin fixing this?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** And that's the end... sort of. Thanks to the continued support through this story via reads, follows, favorites, and reviews. I hope that it lived up to expectations.

Since this is the last chapter, please leave a review and let me know what you thought!

The sequel will focus on Sam's recovery and will be titled _Becoming Human_ and likely rated M. I hope to have the first chapter posted soon and hope to see you there!

Remember, this story would not have been created without M.J. Ellsworth and her prompt to start it off, along with her continued idea-bouncing with me throughout the story. Head over to her profile, read her work, and show her some love!


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